“ADVERTISING TIPSTERS” AND “BETTING COMMISSIONERS.”
_The Vice of Gambling on the increase among the
Working-classes_—_Sporting_ “_Specs_”—_A_ “_Modus_”—_Turf
Discoveries_—_Welshers_—_The Vermin of the Betting-field_—_Their
Tactics_—_The Road to Ruin_.
THERE can be no doubt that the vice of gambling is on the increase
amongst the English working-classes. Of this no better proof is afforded
than in the modern multiplication of those newspapers specially devoted
to matters “sportive.” Twenty years ago there were but three or four
sporting newspapers published in London; now there are more than a dozen.
It would, however, be unfair to regard the rapid growth of these
questionable prints as an undoubted symptom of the deepening depravity of
the masses. The fact is this: that though the national passion for
gambling, for betting, and wagering, and the excitement of seeing this or
that “event” decided, has increased of late, it is chiefly because the
people have much more leisure now than of yore. They must have amusement
for their disengaged hours, and they naturally seek that for which they
have the greatest liking.
It is a comforting reflection, however, that in their sports and pastimes
Englishmen, and especially Londoners, of the present generation, are less
barbarous than those of the last. Setting horse-racing aside, anyone who
now takes up for perusal the ordinary penny sporting paper will find
therein nothing more repugnant to his sensibilities, as regards human
performers, than records of swimming, and cricket, and running, and
walking, and leaping; and as regards four-footed creatures, the discourse
will be of dogs “coursing” or racing, or killing rats in a pit. In the
present enlightened age we do not fight cocks and “shy” at hens tied to a
stake at the Shrove-Tuesday fair; neither do we fight dogs, or pit those
sagacious creatures to bait bulls. In a newspaper before me, not a
quarter of a century old, there is a minute and graphic account of a
bull-baiting, at which in the pride of his heart the owner of a bull-dog
did a thing that in the present day would insure for him twelve months of
hard labour on the treadmill, but which in the “good old time” was merely
regarded as the act of a spirited sportsman. A white bull-dog, “Spurt”
by name, had performed prodigies of valour against a bear brought before
him and before a crowded audience. Finally, however, the exhausted
creature bungled in a delicate act of the performance, and those who had
bet against the dog exasperated its master by clapping their hands.
“D’ye think that he can’t do it?” roared the dog’s owner; “why, I’ll take
ten to one in twenties that he does it on three legs—with one foot
chopped off.” “Done!” somebody cried. Whereon the valiant bulldog owner
called for a cleaver, and setting the left fore-paw of his faithful dog
on the ledge of the pit, he hacked it off at a blow. Then instantly he
urged the creature at the bear again, and, raging with pain, it at once
sprang at its shaggy opponent and pinned it.
It cannot be denied that occasionally there still appears in the sporting
newspapers some brief account of a “mill” that has recently taken place
between those once highly-popular gentlemen—the members of the “P.R.”
But public interest in this department of “sport” is fast dying out; and
not one reader in a hundred would care to wade through column after
column of an account of how the Brompton Bison smashed the snout of the
Bermondsey Pet; and how the latter finally gained the victory by
battering his opponent’s eyes until he was blind and “came up groggy,”
and could not even see his man, let alone avoid the sledgehammer blows
that were still pounding his unhappy ribs. There are left very few
indeed of those individuals who, as “sportsmen,” admire
Raw-Head-and-Bloody-Bones as master of the ceremonies.
All the while, however, it is to be feared that the sporting newspaper of
the present day reveals the existence of really more mischief, more
substantial immorality and rascality than ever appeared in their pages
before. As a quarter of a century since pugilism was the main feature
with the sporting press, now it is horse-racing; not for its sake, but
for the convenient peg it affords to hang a bet on. It may be safely
asserted that among Londoners not one in five hundred could mention the
chief qualities a racer should possess; but this goes for nothing; or
perhaps it might be said that it goes for everything. It is each man’s
faith in the ignorance of his neighbour, and his high respect for his own
sagacity and his “good luck,” wherein resides the secret of the
horse-betting mania at the present time afflicting the nation.
As the reader will have remarked, so rapidly has the disease in question
spread during the past few years that Government has at last thought fit
to interpose the saving arm of the law between the victim and the
victimiser. Numerous as are the sporting papers, and to the last degree
accommodating in acting as mediums of communication between the ignorant
people who stand in need of horsey counsel and the “knowing ones” of the
turf who, for a small consideration, are ever ready to give it, it was
discovered by certain bold schemers that a yet wider field of operation
was as yet uncultivated. To be sure, what these bold adventurers
meditated was contrary to law, and of that they were well aware, and at
first acted on the careful Scotch maxim of not putting out their hand
farther than at a short notice they could draw it back again. Success,
however, made them audacious. Either the law slept, or else it
indolently saw what they were up to and winked, till at last, growing
each week more courageous, the new gambling idea, that took the name of
“Spec,” became of gigantic dimensions.
Throughout lower London, and the shady portions of its suburbs, the
window of almost every public-house and beer-shop was spotted with some
notice of these “Specs.” There were dozens of them. There were the
“Deptford Spec,” and the “Lambeth Spec,” and the “Great Northern Spec,”
and the “Derby Spec;” but they all meant one and the same thing—a
lottery, conducted on principles more or less honest, the prize to be
awarded according to the performances of certain racehorses. All on a
sudden, however, the officers of the law swooped down on the gambling
band, and carried them, bag and baggage, before a magistrate to answer
for their delinquency.
At the examination of the first batch at Bow-street, as well as at their
trial, much curious information was elicited. It appeared that the
originator of the scheme lived at Deptford, and that he had pursued it
for so long as six or seven years.
The drawings were on Saturday nights, when the great majority of the
working-people had received their wages, and when, it having been noised
abroad that these lotteries were going on, they were likely to attend and
to expend their money in the purchase of such of the tickets as had not
been sold already.
If all the tickets were not sold, a portion of each prize was deducted,
and the holders of prizes were paid in proportion to the number of
tickets that were sold; and, as it was impossible to know what number of
tickets had actually been sold, it could not be determined whether the
distribution had or had not been carried out with fairness, or how much
had been deducted to pay for expenses, and to afford a profit to the
promoters of the concern. Several cabloads of tickets, result-sheets,
&c. were seized at the residences of the managers of the “spec.”
There were numerous “partners” in the firm, and they were frequently at
the chief’s residence, and were instrumental in carrying out the
lotteries. One or other was always present at the drawing of the numbers
and at the distribution of the prizes. One partner was a stationer in
the Strand, and at his shop were sold the tickets for these lotteries,
and also what are termed the “result-sheets,” which were sold at one
penny each, and each of which contained the results of a “draw,” setting
forth which of the ticket-holders had been fortunate enough to draw the
several prizes, and also advertising the next “spec” or lottery. Each of
these “specs” related to a particular race, and the tickets were
substantially alike. Each had on the top the words “Deptford Spec,” with
a number and letter, and in the corner the name of a race, as “Newmarket
Handicap Sweep,” “Liverpool Grand National Steeplechase.” In each of
these there were 60,000 subscribers, and in that for the Thousand Guineas
75,000. The prizes varied in proportion; but in one they were £500 for
the first horse, £300 for the second, and £150 for the third. Among the
starters was to be divided £500, and among the non-starters £600. There
were also 200 prizes of £1, and 300 prizes of 10_s._ It was stated on
the tickets that the prizes would go with the stakes, and that the
result-sheets would be published on the Monday after the draw. There was
also a stipulation that, in the event of any dispute arising, it should
be referred to the editors of the _Era_, _Bell’s Life_, and the _Sporting
Times_, and the decision of the majority to be binding. If the numbers
were not filled up, the prizes were to be reduced in proportion; with
some other details. There was no printer’s name to the tickets or
result-sheets.
The detective police-officers, in whose hands the getting-up of evidence
for the prosecution had been intrusted, proved that, after they purchased
their tickets, they went up the stairs in a public-house about a quarter
to seven o’clock. They went into the club-room, where about sixty or
seventy persons had assembled, and where the managers of the lotteries
were selling tickets. The witness purchased one, and paid a shilling for
it. It had the same form as the others, and the draw was to be held that
night. Someone got up and said (reading from several sheets of paper in
his hand), “4,200 tickets not sold;” this he repeated twice. He then
proceeded to read from the papers the numbers of the tickets unsold. The
reading occupied about half-an-hour. After the numbers were read out,
they commenced to undo a small bundle of tickets, which they placed upon
the table. They fetched down some more bundles similar to the first, and
continued undoing them until they had undone about a bushel. The tickets
were all numbered. They then proceeded to place all the tickets in a
large wheel-of-fortune, after mixing them up well with a quantity of sand
to prevent their sticking together. The wheel was a kind of barrel
revolving on axles, with a hole for the hand. One of the managers asked
if any gentleman had got a sporting paper. No one answered, so he
produced one himself; he (witness) believed the _Sporting Life_. He
said, “Will any gentleman read the names of the horses for the Grand
National?” The names of the horses were then read out by those at the
table, while tickets were drawn for each till all the horses were called.
The tickets were then put down on the table, and the defendants proceeded
to undo another packet. They undid a heap, about a quarter the bulk of
the first lot. They put these into another wheel-of-fortune. Having
done so, two boys about fourteen or fifteen years old came into the room,
and after divesting themselves of their jackets and tucking up their
sleeves, each went to the wheels, which were turned by some of the
persons in the room. One of the managers called out the numbers of the
tickets and the name of the horse to each prize.
It need only be mentioned, in proof of the popularity enjoyed by these
“specs,” that within a fortnight afterwards a similar scene was enacted
at the same public-house. A detective went to the Bedford Arms, where he
heard that a distribution of prizes was to be made. He went into the
club-room. The managers were there, with about forty prizeholders. A
person produced a ticket and handed it to one of the directors, who,
after examining it, said “All right,” and paid the money—405_l._—which
consisted of cheques, notes, and gold. The holder of the prize got
405_l._ for a 500_l._ prize, it being supposed all the tickets were not
sold, and a reduction was made in proportion. About forty prizes were
given away in this manner during the evening. After the prizes were
drawn, each person was asked to put something in the bowl for the two
boys.
The prisoners were committed for trial, but were lucky enough to escape
punishment. For years they had been defying the law, and feathering
their nests on the strength of the silly confidence reposed in them by
the thousands of dupes who ran after their precious “specs;” and the
sentence of the judge was in effect no more severe than this—it bade them
beware how they so committed themselves for the future. Of course the
released lottery-agents promised that they _would_ beware, and doubtless
they will. Without being called on to do so, they even volunteered an
act of noble generosity. As before stated, the police had found in their
possession and seized a large sum of money—fourteen hundred pounds. This
the good gentlemen of the lottery suggested might be distributed amongst
the charities of that parish their leader honoured with his residence,
and with the Recorder’s sanction, and amid the murmured plaudits of a
crowded court, the suggestion was adopted. The oddest part of the
business was, however, that the benevolent gentlemen gave away what
didn’t belong to them, the fourteen hundred pounds representing the many
thousand shillings the believers in “specs” had intrusted to their
keeping. However, everybody appeared to think that the discharged
“speculators” had behaved honourably, not to say nobly, and there the
case ended.
The “spec” bubble exploded, the police authorities show symptoms of
bringing the machinery of the law to bear on a wider-spread and more
insidious mischief of the same breed. With the betting infatuation there
has naturally sprung up a swarm of knowing hungry pike ready to take
advantage of it. These are the advertising tipsters, the “turf
prophets,” and the “betting commissioners.” Driven from the streets,
where for so long they publicly plied their trade, they have resorted to
the cheap sporting press to make known their amiable intentions and
desires, and the terms on which they are still willing, even from the
sacred privacy of their homes, to aid and counsel all those faint-hearted
ones who despair of ruining themselves soon enough without such friendly
help.
Were it not for the awful amount of misery and depravity it involves, it
would be amusing to peruse the various styles of address from the
“prophet” to the benighted, and to mark the many kinds of bait that are
used in “flat-catching,” as the turf slang has it, as well as the
peculiar method each fisherman has in the sort and size of hook he uses,
and the length of line.
Entitled to rank foremost in this numerous family is an unassuming but
cheerful and confident gentleman, who frequently, and at an expensive
length, advertises himself as the happy originator and proprietor of what
he styles a “Modus.” It is described as an instrument of “beauty, force,
and power,” and it is, doubtless, only that its owner, if he kept it all
to himself, and set it going at full blast, would undoubtedly win all the
money in the country, and so put an end to the sport, that he is induced
to offer participation in its working at the small equivalent of a few
postage-stamps. In his modest description of his wonderful “Modus,” Mr.
M. says:
“In daily realising incomparably rich winnings with this Modus,
another great and distinguished victory was very successfully
achieved at Newmarket Spring Meeting. Mr. M.’s distinguished Winning
Modus, for beauty, force, and power, has never yet failed in clearly
realising treasures of weekly winnings and successes. For this
reason, this week’s eminent and moneyed success was the result with
this Modus at the Newmarket Spring Meeting. For acquiring an
ascendency over any other capital-making turf discovery, either
secret or public, it is truly marvellous. In fact, this Winning
Modus never deteriorates in its character, immense riches, or
winnings, for it is strikingly and truthfully infallible and
never-failing. At any rate, it will win 18,000_l._ or 20,000_l._ for
any investor ere the final close of the season. Do not think this
anywise fiction, for it is strict verity. Mr. M. takes this
opportunity to respectfully thank his patronisers for their
compliments, congratulations, and presents. It is needless to remind
his patrons that an illustrious and rich success will easily be
achieved at Chester next week, when Mr. M.’s Winning Modus will again
realise its infallible success in thousands.”
It is to be assumed that Mr. M. has already by means of his own “Modus”
fished out of the risky waters of gambling a few of these “18,000_l._ or
20,000_l._” he speaks so lightly of; and doubtless the reader’s first
reflection will be, that he should hasten to expend a trifle of his
immense winnings in securing for himself at least as fair a knowledge of
the English language as is possessed by a “dame-school” scholar of six
years old. It is evident that Mr. M. has all the money at his command
which he is ever likely to require, or, of course, he would not reveal
his precious secret on such ridiculously easy terms. He would patent it,
and come down heavily on any rash person who infringed his rights, more
valuable than those that rest in Mr. Graves, or even Mr. Betts, the great
captain of “capsules.” No, he has won all the money he is ever likely to
need; indeed, how can a man ever be poor while he retains possession of
that wonderful talismanic “Modus,” a touch of which converts a
betting-book into a solid, substantial gold-mine? Still, he is exacting
as regards the gratitude of those whom his invention enriches. It is his
pride to record as many instances as possible of the dutiful thankfulness
of his fellow-creatures, and as, with pity and regret, he is aware that
the only earnest of a man’s sincerity is that which takes the shape of
the coinage of the realm, he is compelled, though sorely against his own
confiding and generous nature, to attach much weight to thankofferings of
a pecuniary nature. Every week he appends to his sketch of the working
of his “Modus” a list of those “patronisers” from whom he has most
recently heard. It may be urged by unbelievers that in this there is no
novelty, since from time immemorial the quacks of other professions have
done precisely the same thing; but it must be admitted that this should
at least be taken as proof of Mr. M.’s indifference to the evil opinion
of the censorious. Let us take the testimonials for the week of the
Chester Races, which, as he says, “are promiscuously selected from a vast
number:”
“SIR,—For distinction, honour, and fame, your marvellous winning
Modus is worthy of its renown. I am happy in asserting it has won me
4,220_l._ nett so quickly and readily this season. Accept the
200_l._ enclosed.—I am, &c.
M. ARTHUR PORSON.”
“Mr. M. undoubtedly considers his winning Modus an infallible one.
Mr. G. Melville certainly considers it is too. At any rate, Mr.
Melville is the very fortunate winner of upwards of 6,400_l._
6,400_l._ at once is a tangible criterion as to its great worth for
procuring these heavy winnings. Mr. Melville forwards a sum of money
with his congratulations, as a present. Mr. M. will please accept
the same.”
“SIR,—Do me a favour in accepting the enclosed cheque for 50_l._
Through the instrumentality of your certainly very successful winning
Modus, I am, to my infinite pleasure, quickly becoming a certain and
never-failing winner of thousands; for already has its golden agency
marvellously won me 3,400_l._
“C. CONYERS GRESHAM.”
In conclusion, this benefactor of his species says: “For this successful
winning ‘Modus,’ and its infinite riches, forward a stamped directed
envelope, addressed Mr. M., Rugby.” That is all. Forward a directed
envelope to Rugby, and in return you shall be placed, booted and spurred,
on the road to infinite riches. If, starting as a beggar, you allow your
head to be turned by the bewildering pelting of a pitiless storm of
sovereigns, and ride to the devil, Mr. M. is not to blame.
The astounding impudence of these advertising dodgers is only equalled by
the credulity of their dupes. How long Mr. M. has presented his precious
“Modus” to the sporting public through the columns of “horsey”
newspapers, I cannot say; but this much is certain: that according to his
success has been the proportion of vexation and disappointment he has
caused amongst the geese who have trusted him. We are assured that
impostors of the M. school reap golden harvests; that thousands on
thousands weekly nibble at his baits; consequently thousands on thousands
weekly have their silly eyes opened to the clumsy fraud to which they
have been the victims. But M. of Rugby flourishes still; he still vaunts
the amazing virtues, and the beauty, force, and power of his “Modus,” and
brags of this week’s eminent and moneyed success as though it were a
matter of course. Mr. M. of Rugby is less modest than some members of
his fraternity. Here is an individual who affects the genteel:
“A CARD.—Private Racing Information!!—A gentleman who has been a
breeder and owner of racehorses, and now in a good commercial
position, attained by judicious betting, enjoying rare opportunities
of early intelligence from most successful and dangerous stables,
being himself debarred by partnership restrictions from turf
speculations on his own account, thinks he might utilise the great
advantages at his disposal by leaving himself open to correspondence
with the racing public. This is a genuine advertisement, and worth
investigating.—Address, —, Post-office, Stafford. Unquestionable
references. Directed envelopes. No ‘systems’ or other fallacies.”
It will be observed that, despite the good position attained by the
advertiser by “judicious betting,” not only was he glad to escape from
the field where his fortune was founded, and to take refuge in the dull
jog-trot regions of commerce, but his “partners” prohibit him in future
from collecting golden eggs from any racing mare’s-nest whatsoever. He
has made a fat pocket by the judicious exercise of a peculiar and
difficult science he is well versed in; but still he is tolerated by his
brother-members of the firm only on the distinct understanding that he
never does it again. Perhaps he has grown over-rich, and the rest and
seclusion is necessary to the complete restoration of his health.
Perhaps he owes to “Modus”—but no, the retired breeder and owner of
racehorses distinctly informs us that he has no faith in “systems” or
other fallacies: “lying excepted,” is the amendment that at once occurs
to the individual of common sense.
Education is reckoned as a prime essential to success in most trades; but
in that of betting it would appear unnecessary, in order to realise a
fortune for himself or his fellow-mortals, that an advertising tipster or
betting-man should be master of the English language, let alone of the
cardinal virtues. Here is a member of the Manchester Subscription-rooms,
in proof:
“George D—y, member of the Manchester Subscription-rooms, attends
personally all the principal race-meetings. Some persons having used
the above name, G. D. gives notice that he has not anyone betting for
him, and anyone doing so are welshers.”
Another gentleman eschews prophecy, and would throw “Modus” to the dogs,
only that possibly his natural instincts peculiarly qualify him for
knowing that to do so would be to cast an undeserved indignity on those
respectable creatures. He goes in for “secret information.” He does not
seek to mystify his readers by adopting a _nom-de-plume_, such as “Stable
Mouse,” or “Earwig,” or “Spy in the Manger.” He boldly owns his identity
as John —, of Leicester-square, London, and arrogates to himself an
“outsider” that is to beat anything else in the field. “Do not be
guided,” says this frank and plain-spoken sportsman—“do not be guided by
the betting, but back my outsider, whose name has scarcely ever been
mentioned in the quotations, because the very clever division to which it
belongs have put their money on so quietly that their secret is known to
only a few. I am in the swim, and know that the horse did not start for
one or two races it could have won easily, but has been expressly saved
for this. I have several other absolute certainties, and guarantee to be
particularly successful at Chester. Terms: fourteen stamps the full
meeting. Many of the minor events will be reduced to certainties; and in
order to take advantage of it, I am willing to telegraph the very latest,
without charge, to those who will pay me honourably from winnings; or I
will invest any amount remitted to me, guaranteeing to telegraph before
the race is run the full particulars.—John G., Leicester-square, London.”
What a pity it is that those who flatter themselves that they are
intellectually qualified to embark in one of the most hazardous and
difficult ways of making money should not be at the pains of carefully
reading and deliberating on barefaced attempts at imposture, such as are
disclosed in the above! John G. is one of the “clever division,” he
says. So much for his honesty, when he admits that he is in the “swim”
with men who have been tampering with the same wonderful “outsider,” and
so manœuvering as to throw dust in the eyes of unsuspecting persons. So
much for the wealth and position of the “swim,” when John G., a confessed
member of it, is ready to betray his confederates for the small
consideration of fourteenpence, or less, should you fall short of that
amount of faith in his integrity. He will “leave it to you, sir,” as
does the sweeper who clears the snow from your door, or the industrious
wretch who brushes the dust from your coat on the racecourse. Or he will
invest any sum you may feel disposed to intrust to him. There is not the
least doubt of it; and what is more, you may rest assured that he will
invest it so as to make sure of a substantial return. How else is he to
cut a respectable figure at Epsom or Ascot, and join the bold-faced,
leather-lunged gang, who, with a little money-pouch slung at their side,
and a little, a _very_ little money within the pouch, elbow their way
through the press, bawling, “I’ll lay” on this, that, or t’other?
J. G. of Leicester-square is not the only advertising tipster who
professes to be “in the swim,” and on that account to be in a position to
act as a traitor to his friends, and the benefactor of the strange
public. Here is the announcement of another gentleman.
“GREAT EVENTS!—Enormous odds!!—Two horses have been expressly saved;
and one of the best judges on the turf tells me they are the greatest
certainties he ever knew. As for another event, it is quite at the
mercy of the owner of a certain animal. I do not hesitate to say
that there never was, and never will be, a better chance of pulling
off a large stake at a trifling risk; for I can obtain the enormous
odds of 1,840_l._ to 1_l._, or 920_l._ to 10_s._, or 460_l._ to
5_s._; or I will send the secret for fourteen stamps.”
Here is a Munchausen fit to shake hands with and claim as a brother J. G.
of Leicester-square. He knows of a forthcoming race, and he likewise
knows of a man who intends to run in it a certain horse that will hold
the equine contest at his mercy. It is but reasonable to assume that the
noble animal in question will obey the dictates of his nature, and not
give way to weak forbearance or foolish generosity. Undoubtedly,
therefore, it will win the race; and the advertiser, if he puts 5_s._ on
it, is _sure_ of bagging 460_l._! And yet he is found competing in the
same dirty field with a score of his kindred, clamouring for
fourteenpence in postage-stamps.
“Stable secrets! stable secrets!” shrieks the “Sporting Doctor;” secrets
so very precious that he cannot possibly betray them for less than
fivepence each. Send fifteen stamps, and receive in return the “true and
certain winners of the Chester, the Derby, and the Oaks.” The “Sporting
Doctor” hails from a back-street in the Blackfriars-road. The
“Barber-poet” of Paddington, in touching terms, implores his noble
patrons to assist him in advising his fellow-creatures of the “good
things he has for them.” “Show my circulars to your friends,” he says;
“it will be to my interest for you to do so. I will give 100_l._ to any
charitable institution, if the advice I give is not in every instance the
best that money can obtain.” The next tipster on the list goes farther
than this. He boldly avows he will forfeit a large sum of money unless
he “spots” the identical winners “first and second.” Of course, nothing
can be more transparent than bombast of this sort; but here it is in
black-and-white:
“Mr. Ben W. will forfeit 500_l._ if he does not send first and second
for the Chester Cup. Send four stamps and stamped envelope, and
promise a present, and I will send you the Chester Cup, Great
Northern, Derby, and Oaks winners.—Address, —, Waterloo-road,
London.”
Mr. Benjamin W.’s suggestion of a “promised present” is, however, no
novelty with the advertising tipster. Many of the fraternity ask a
cash-down payment for the “tip” they send—a sum barely sufficient to buy
them a pint of beer—professing to rely contentedly on the generosity of
their “patronisers,” as Mr. Modus styles them. Occasionally are appended
to the advertisements gentle remonstrances and reminders that the
confidence the tipster reposed in his patroniser seems to have been
misplaced. The latter is requested “not to forget what is due from one
gentleman, though in a humble sphere, to another.” One gentleman becomes
quite pathetic in an appeal of this kind:
“The winners of Great Northern, Derby, and Oaks for thirteen stamps,
or one event four stamps, with promise of present from winnings.
Send a stamped envelope without delay. Gentlemen are requested to
act honourably, and send me the promised percentage on the Two
Thousand, for the labourer is worthy of his hire.—Address, —
Cumberland-street, Chelsea, London.”
Another gentleman, blessed with an amount of coolness and candour that
should insure him a competency if every horse were swept off the face of
the earth to-morrow, publishes the following; and the reader will please
bear in mind that these various advertisements are clipped out of the
sporting papers, and copied to the letter:
“TAKE NOTICE!!—I never advertise unless I am confident of success. I
have now a real good thing for Derby at 100 to 1; sure to get a
place, for which 25 to 1 can be obtained.—Enclose 1_s._ stamps and
stamped addressed envelope, and secure this moral.—Remember Perry
Down.—Address, H— Post-office, Reading.”
It may be remarked, that everything that is highly promising becomes, in
the slang of the advertising tipster, a “moral;” but there are two
dictionary definitions of the term—one affecting its relation to good or
bad human life, and the other which is described as “the instruction of a
fable.” It is possibly in this last sense that the tipster uses the
word. “Send for my ‘moral’ on the Great Northern Handicap,” writes Mr.
Wilson of Hull. “It is said that the golden ball flies past every man
once in his lifetime!” cries “Quick-sight” of John-street, Brixton. “See
it in my moral certainty for the Derby. See it, and fail not to grasp
it. Fourteen stamps (uncut) will secure it.”
This should indeed be glad news for those unfortunates whose vision has
hitherto been gladdened in the matter of golden balls only by seeing them
hanging in triplet above the pawnbroker’s friendly door. Fancy being
enabled to grasp the golden ball—the ball that is to stump out poverty,
and send the bails of impecuniosity flying into space never to return, at
the small cost of fourteen postage-stamps! They must be uncut, by the
way, or their talismanic virtue will be lost. The worst of it is, that
you are unable either to see it or grasp it until Quicksight sees and
grasps your fourteen stamps; and if you should happen to miss the golden
ball after all, it is doubtful if he would return you your poor
one-and-twopence as some consolation in your disappointment. He would
not do this, but he would be very happy to give you another chance. His
stock of “golden balls” is very extensive. He has been supplying them,
or rather the chance of grasping them, at fourteenpence each any time
during this five years, and he is doubtless in a position to “keep the
ball rolling” (the golden ball) until all his customers are supplied.
By the way, it should be mentioned, that the advertiser last quoted, as
well as several others here instanced, terminate their appeals by begging
the public to beware of welshers!
Does the reader know what is a “welsher”—the creature against whose
malpractices the sporting public are so emphatically warned? Probably he
does not. It is still more unlikely that he ever witnessed a “welsher”
hunt; and as I there have the advantage of him, it may not be out of
place here to enlighten him on both points. A “welsher” is a person who
contracts a sporting debt without a reasonable prospect of paying it.
There is no legal remedy against such a defaulter. Although the law to a
large extent countenances the practice of betting, and will even go the
length of lending the assistance of its police towards keeping such order
that a multitude may indulge in its gambling propensities comfortably, it
will not recognise as a just debt money owing between two wagerers. It
is merely “a debt of honour,” and the law has no machinery that will
apply thereto. The consequence is, that amongst the betting fraternity,
when a man shows himself dishonourable, he is punished by the mob that at
the time of the discovery of his defalcation may happen to surround him;
and with a degree of severity according to the vindictiveness and
brutality of the said mob. On the occasion of my witnessing a “welsher
hunt,” I was present at the races that in the autumn of 1868 were held in
Alexandra-park at Muswell-hill. As the race for the Grand Prize was
decided, looking down from the gallery of the stand, I observed a sudden
commotion amongst the perspiring, bawling, leather-lunged gentry, who
seek whom they may devour, in the betting-ring below, and presently there
arose the magical cry of “Welsher!” I have heard the sudden cry of
“Fire!” raised in the night, and watched its thrilling, rousing effect on
the population; but that was as nothing compared with it. Instantly, and
as though moved by one deadly hate and thirst for vengeance, a rush was
made towards a man in a black wide-awake cap, and with the regular
betting-man’s pouch slung at his side, and who was hurrying towards the
gate of the enclosure. “Welsher! welsher!” cried the furious mob of the
ring, making at the poor wretch; and in an instant a dozen fists were
directed at his head and face, and he was struck down; but he was a
biggish man and strong, and he was quickly on his legs, to be again
struck down and kicked and stamped on. He was up again, however, without
his hat, and with his face a hideous patch of crimson, and hustled
towards the gate, plunging like a madman to escape the fury of his
pursuers; but the policeman blocked the way, and they caught him again,
and some punched at his face, while others tore off his clothes. One
ruffian—I cannot otherwise describe him—plucked at the poor devil’s shirt
at the breast, and tore away a tattered handful of it, which he flung
over to the great yelling crowd now assembled without the rails; another
tore away his coat-sleeves, and tossed them aloft; and in the same way he
lost his waistcoat and one of his boots. It seemed as though, if they
detained him another moment, the man must be murdered, and so the
policeman made way for him to escape.
From the frying-pan into the fire. “Welsher! welsher!” The air rang
with the hateful word, and, rushing from the gate, he was at once
snatched at by the foremost men of the mouthing, yelling mob outside, who
flung him down and punched and beat him. Fighting for his life, he
struggled and broke away, and ran; but a betting-man flung his tall stool
at him, and brought him to earth again for the twentieth time, and again
the punching and kicking process was resumed. How he escaped from these
was a miracle, but escape he did; and with the desperation of a rat
pursued by dogs, dived into an empty hansom cab, and there lay crouched
while fifty coward hands were stretched forward to drag him out, or,
failing in that, to prog and poke at him with walking-sticks and
umbrellas. At last, a mounted policeman spurred his horse forward and
came to the rescue, keeping his steed before the place of refuge. Then
the furious mob, that was not to be denied, turned on the policeman, and
only his great courage and determination saved him from being unhorsed
and ill-treated. Then other police came up, and the poor tattered
wretch, ghastly, white, and streaming with blood, was hauled out and
dragged away insensible, with his head hanging and his legs trailing in
the dust, amid the howling and horrible execrations of five thousand
Englishmen.
The next consideration was what to do with him. To convey him off the
premises was impossible, since a space of nearly a quarter of a mile had
to be traversed ere the outer gate could be reached. There was no
“lock-up” at the new grand stand, as at Epsom and elsewhere. Nothing
remained but to hustle him through a trap-door, and convey him by an
underground route to a cellar, in which empty bottles were deposited.
And grateful indeed must have been the stillness and the coolness of such
a sanctuary after the fierce ordeal he had so recently undergone.
Whether water was supplied him to wash his wounds, or if a doctor was
sent for, is more than I can say. There he was allowed to remain till
night, when he slunk home; and within a few days afterwards a local
newspaper briefly announced that the “unfortunate man, who had so rashly
roused the fury of the sporting fraternity at Alexandra races, was dead”!
To a close observer of the system that rules at all great horseracing
meetings, nothing is so remarkable as the child-like reliance with which
the general public intrusts its bettings to the keeping of the
“professionals,” who there swarm in attendance. In the case of the
bettors of the “ring” they may be tolerably safe, since it is to the
interest of all that the atmosphere of that sacred enclosure, only to be
gained at the cost of half-a-guinea or so, should be kept passably sweet.
Besides, as was mentioned in the case of the unfortunate “welsher” at
Alexandra races, the said enclosure is bounded by high railings; and the
salutary effect of catching and killing a “welsher” is universally
acknowledged. As regards the betting men themselves, it enables them to
give vent to reckless ferocity that naturally waits on disappointed
greed, while the public at large are impressed with the fact that strict
principles of honour amongst gamblers really do prevail, whatever may
have been said to the contrary. But at all the principal races the
greatest number of bets, if not the largest amounts of money, are risked
outside the magic circle. It is here that the huckster and small pedlar
of the betting fraternity conjure with the holiday-making shoemaker or
carpenter for his half-crown. For the thousandth time one cannot help
expressing amazement that men who have to work so hard for their
money—shrewd, hard-headed, sensible fellows as a rule—should part with it
on so ludicrously flimsy a pretext. Here—all amongst the refreshment
bustle, from which constantly streamed men hot from the beer and spirit
counters—swarmed hundreds of these betting harpies; some in carts, but
the majority of them perched on a stool, each with a bit of paper, on
which some name was printed, stuck on his hat, and with a money-bag slung
at his side, and a pencil and a handful of tickets. This was all. As
often as not the name and address on the betting man’s hat or money-bag
was vaguely expressed as “S. Pipes, Nottingham,” or “John Brown,
Oxford-street;” and who Pipes or Brown was not one man in a thousand had
the least idea. Nor did they inquire, the silly gulls. It was enough
for them they saw a man on a stool, ostensibly a “betting man,” bawling
out at the top of his great, vulgar, slangy voice what odds he was
prepared to lay on this, that, or t’other; and they flocked round—enticed
by terms too good to be by any possibility true, if they only were cool
enough to consider for a moment—and eagerly tendered to the rogue on the
stool their crowns and half-crowns, receiving from the strange Mr. Pipes
or Mr. Brown nothing in exchange but a paltry little ticket with a number
on it. This, for the present, concluded the transaction; and off went
the acceptor of the betting man’s odds to see the race on which the stake
depended. In very many cases the exchange of the little ticket for the
money concluded the transaction, not only for the present, but for all
future; for, having plucked all the gulls that could be caught, nothing
is easier than for Pipes to exchange hats with Brown and to shift their
places; and the pretty pair may with impunity renounce all
responsibility, and open a book on the next race on the programme. To be
sure it is hard to find patience with silly people who _will_ walk into a
well; and when they follow the workings of their own free will, it is
scarcely too much to say they are not to be pitied. But when a cheat or
sharper is permitted standing room that he may pursue his common
avocation, which is to cheat and plunder the unwary public, the matter
assumes a slightly different complexion.
Of all manner of advertising betting gamblers, however, none are so
pernicious, or work such lamentable evil against society, as those who,
with devilish cunning, appeal to the young and inexperienced—the factory
lad and the youth of the counting-house or the shop. Does anyone doubt
if horseracing has attractions for those whose tender age renders it
complimentary to style them “young men”? Let him on the day of any great
race convince himself. Let him make a journey on the afternoon of
“Derby-day,” for instance, to Fleet-street or the Strand, where the
offices of the sporting newspapers are situated. It may not be generally
known that the proprietors of the _Sunday Times_, _Bell’s Life_, and
other journals of a sporting tendency, in their zeal to outdo each other
in presenting the earliest possible information to the public, are at the
trouble and expense of securing the earliest possible telegram of the
result of a horserace, and exhibiting it enlarged on a broad-sheet in
their shop-windows. Let us take the _Sunday Times_, for instance. The
office of this most respectable of sporting newspapers is situated near
the corner of Fleet-street, at Ludgate-hill; and wonderful is the
spectacle there to be seen on the afternoon of the great equine contest
on Epsom downs. On a small scale, and making allowance for the absence
of the living provocatives of excitement, the scene is a reproduction of
what at that moment, or shortly since, has taken place on the racecourse
itself. Three o’clock is about the time the great race is run at Epsom,
and at that time the Fleet-street crowd begins to gather. It streams in
from the north, from the east, from the south. At a glance it is evident
that the members of it are not idly curious merely. It is not composed
of ordinary pedestrians who happen to be coming that way. Butcher-lads,
from the neighbouring great meat-market, come bareheaded and perspiring
down Ludgate-hill, and at a pace that tells how exclusively their eager
minds are set on racing: all in blue working-smocks, and with the grease
and blood of their trade adhering to their naked arms, and to their
hob-nailed boots, and to their hair. Hot and palpitating they reach the
obelisk in the middle of the road, and there they take their stand, with
their eyes steadfastly fixed on that at present blank and innocent window
that shall presently tell them of their fate.
I mention the butcher-boys first, because, for some unknown reason, they
undoubtedly are foremost in the rank of juvenile bettors. In the days
when the Fleet-lane betting abomination as yet held out against the
police authorities, and day after day a narrow alley behind the squalid
houses there served as standing room for as many “professional” betting
men, with their boards and money-pouches, as could crowd in a row, an
observer standing at one end of the lane might count three blue frocks
for one garment of any other colour. But though butcher-boys show
conspicuously among the anxious Fleet-street rush on a Derby-day, they
are not in a majority by a long way. To bet on the “Derby” is a mania
that afflicts all trades; and streaming up Farringdon-street may he seen
representatives of almost every craft that practises within the City’s
limits. There is the inky printer’s-boy, hot from the “machine-room,”
with his grimy face and his cap made of a ream wrapper; there is the
jeweller’s apprentice, with his bibbed white apron, ruddy with the powder
of rouge and borax; and the paper-stainer’s lad, with the variegated
splashes of the pattern of his last “length” yet wet on his ragged
breeches; and a hundred others, all hurrying pell-mell to the one spot,
and, in nine cases out of ten, with the guilt of having “slipped out”
visible on their streaming faces. Take their ages as they congregate in
a crowd of five hundred and more (they are expected in such numbers that
special policemen are provided to keep the roadway clear), and it will be
found that more than half are under the age of eighteen. Furthermore, it
must be borne in mind that in the majority of cases a single lad
represents a score or more employed in one “office” or factory. They
cast lots who shall venture on the unlawful mission, and it has fallen on
him. Again, and as before mentioned, the _Sunday Times_ is but one of
ten or a dozen sporting newspapers published between Ludgate-hill and St.
Clement Danes; and in the vicinity of every office may be met a similar
crowd. Let the reader bear these facts in mind, and he may arrive at
some faint idea of the prevalence of the horse-gambling evil amongst the
rising generation.
The significance of these various facts is plain to the advertising
tipster, and he shapes his baits accordingly. He never fails to mention,
in apprising his youthful admirers, that, in exchange for the last “good
thing,” postage-stamps will be taken. Well enough the cunning
unscrupulous villain knows that in the commercial world postage-stamps
are articles of very common use, and that at many establishments they are
dealt out carelessly, and allowed to lie about in drawers and desks for
the “common use.” There is temptation ready to hand! “Send fourteen
stamps to Dodger, and receive in return the _certain_ tip as to who will
win the Derby.” There are the stamps, and the ink, and the pen, and the
envelope, and nothing remains but to apply them to the use Dodger
suggests. It is not stealing, at least it does not seem like stealing,
this tearing fourteen stamps from a sheet at which everybody in the
office has access, and which will be replaced without question as soon as
it is exhausted. It is at most only “cribbing.” What is the difference
between writing a private note on the office paper and appropriating a
few paltry stamps? It would be different if the fourteenpence was in
hard money—a shilling and two penny-pieces. No young bookkeeper with any
pretensions to honesty would be guilty of stealing _money_ from his
master’s office—but a few stamps! Dodger knows this well enough, and
every morning quite a bulky parcel of crummy-feeling letters are
delivered at his residence in some back street in the Waterloo-road.
This is the way that Dodger angles for “flat-fish” of tender age:
“GREAT RESULTS FROM SMALL EFFORTS!—In order to meet the requirements
of those of humble means, W. W—n, of Tavistock-street, is prepared to
receive small sums for investment on the forthcoming great events.
Sums as low as two-and-sixpence in stamps (uncut) may be sent to the
above address, and they will be invested with due regard to our
patron’s interest. Recollect that at the present time there are Real
Good things in the market at 100 to 1, and that even so small a sum
put on such will return the speculator twelve pounds ten shillings,
less ten per cent commission, which is Mr. W.’s charge.”
“Faint heart never won a fortune! It is on record that the most
renowned Leviathan of the betting world began his career as
third-hand in a butcher’s shop! He had a ‘fancy’ for a horse, and
was so strongly impressed with the idea that it would win, that he
begged and borrowed every farthing he could raise, and even pawned
the coat off his back! His pluck and resolution was nobly rewarded.
The horse he backed was at 70 to 1, and he found himself after the
race the owner of nearly a thousand pounds! Bear this in mind.
There are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it. Lose no
time in forwarding fourteen stamps to Alpha, John-street, Nottingham;
and wait the happy result.”
What is this but a plain and unmistakable intimation, on the part of the
advertising blackguard, that his dupes should _stick at nothing_ to raise
money to bet on the “forthcoming great event”? Pawn, beg,
borrow—_anything_, only don’t let the chance slip. Butcher-boys, think
of the luck of your Leviathan craftsman, and at once take the coat off
your back, or if you have not a garment good enough, your master’s coat
out of the clothes-closet, and hasten to pawn it. Never fear for the
happy result. Long before he can miss it, you will be able to redeem it,
besides being in a position to snap your fingers at him, and, if you
please, to start on your own “hook” as a bookmaker.
Another of these “youths’ guide to the turf” delicately points out that,
if bettors will only place themselves in his hands, he will “pull them
through, and land them high and dry,” certainly and surely, and with a
handsome return for their investments. “No knowledge of racing matters
is requisite on the part of the investor,” writes this quack; “indeed, as
in all other business affairs of life, ‘a little knowledge is a dangerous
thing.’ Better trust _entirely_ to one who has made it the one study of
his existence, and can read off the pedigree and doings of every horse
that for the past ten years has run for money. Large investments are not
recommended. Indeed, the beginner should in no case ‘put on’ more than a
half-sovereign, and as low as half-a-crown will often be sufficient, and
in the hands of a practised person like the advertiser be made to go as
far as an injudiciously invested pound or more.”
It would be interesting to know in how many instances these vermin of the
betting-field are successful, how many of them there are who live by
bleeding the simple and the infatuated, and what sort of living it is.
Not a very luxurious one, it would seem, judging from the shady quarters
of the town from which the “tipster” usually hails; but then we have to
bear in mind the venerable maxim, “Light come, light go,” and its
probable application to those harpies who hanker after “uncut” stamps and
receive them in thousands. That very many of them find it a game worth
pursuing, there can be no doubt, or they would not so constantly resort
to the advertising columns of the newspapers. How much mischief they
really do, one can never learn. The newspaper announcement is, of
course, but a preliminary to further business: you send your stamps, and
what you in most cases get in return is not the information for which you
imagined you were bargaining, but a “card of terms” of the tipster’s
method of doing business. There is nothing new or novel in this. It is
an adaptation of the ancient dodge of the medical quack who advertises a
“certain cure” for “all the ills that flesh is heir to,” on receipt of
seven postage-stamps; but all that you receive for your sevenpence is a
printed recipe for the concoction of certain stuffs, “to be had only” of
the advertiser.
And well would it be for the gullible public if the mischief done by the
advertising fraternity of horse-racing quacks was confined to the
“fourteen uncut stamps” they have such an insatiable hunger for. There
can be no doubt, however, that this is but a mild and inoffensive branch
of their nefarious profession. In almost every case they combine with
the exercise of their supernatural gift of prophecy the matter-of-fact
business of the “commission agent,” and, if rumour whispers true, they
make of it at times a business as infernal in its working as can well be
imagined. They can, when occasion serves, be as “accommodating” as the
loan-office swindler or the 60-per-cent bill-discounter, and a profit
superior to that yielded by either of these avocations may be realised,
and that with scarce any trouble at all. No capital is required,
excepting a considerable stock of impudence and a fathomless fund of
cold-blooded rascality.
Judging from the fact that the species of villany in question has never
yet been exposed in a police-court, it is only fair to imagine that it is
a modern invention; on that account I am the more anxious to record and
make public an item of evidence bearing on the subject that, within the
past year, came under my own observation.
It can be scarcely within the year, though, for it was at the time when
an audacious betting gang “squatted” in the vicinity of Ludgate-hill,
and, owing to some hitch in the law’s machinery, they could not easily be
removed. First they swarmed in Bride-lane, Fleet-street. Being
compelled to “move on,” they migrated to a most appropriate site, the
waste land on which for centuries stood the infamous houses of Field-lane
and West-street, and beneath which flowed the filthy Fleet-ditch. But
even this was accounted ground too good to be desecrated by the foot of
the gambling blackleg, and they were one fine morning bundled off it by a
strong body of City police. After this they made a desperate stand on
the prison side of the way in Farringdon-street, and for some months
there remained.
It was at this time that I made the acquaintance of the subject of the
present little story. I had noticed him repeatedly, with his pale
haggard face and his dull eyes, out of which nothing but weariness of
life looked. He was a tall slim young fellow, and wore his patched and
seedy clothes as though he had been used to better attire; and, despite
the tell-tale shabbiness of his boots and his wretched tall black hat, he
still clung to the respectable habit of wearing black kid-gloves, though
it was necessary to shut his fists to hide the dilapidations at their
finger-tips.
He was not remarkable amongst the betting blackguards he mingled with on
account of the active share he took in the questionable business in which
they were engaged; on the contrary, he seemed quite out of place with
them, and though occasionally one would patronise him with a nod, it was
evident that he was “nothing to them,” either as a comrade or a gull to
be plucked. He appeared to be drawn towards them by a fascination he
could not resist, but which he deplored and was ashamed of. It was
customary in those times for the prosperous horse-betting gambler to
affect the genteel person who could afford to keep a “man,” and to press
into his service some poor ragged wretch glad to earn a sixpence by
wearing his master’s “card of terms” round his neck for the inspection of
any person inclined to do business. The tall shabby young fellow’s chief
occupation consisted in wandering restlessly from one of these
betting-card bearers to another, evidently with a view to comparing
“prices” and “odds” offered on this or that horse; but he never bet. I
don’t believe that his pecuniary affairs would have permitted him, even
though a bet as low as twopence-halfpenny might be laid.
I was always on the look-out for my miserable-looking young friend
whenever I passed that way, and seldom failed to find him. He seemed to
possess for me a fascination something like that which horse-betting
possessed for him. One afternoon, observing him alone and looking even
more miserable than I had yet seen him, as he slouched along the miry
pavement towards Holborn, I found means to start a conversation with him.
My object was to learn who and what he was, and whether he was really as
miserable as he looked, and whether there was any help for him. I was
prepared to exercise all the ingenuity at my command to compass this
delicate project, but he saved me the trouble. As though he was glad of
the chance of doing so, before we were half-way up Holborn-hill he turned
the conversation exactly into the desired groove, and by the time the
Tottenham-court-road was reached (he turned down there), I knew even more
of his sad history than is here subjoined.
“What is the business pursuit that takes me amongst the betting-men? O
no, sir, I’m not at all astonished that you should ask the question; I’ve
asked it of myself so often, that it doesn’t come new to me. I pursue no
business, sir. What business _could_ a wretched scarecrow like I am
pursue? Say that _I_ am pursued, and you will be nearer the mark.
Pursued by what I can never get away from or shake off: damn it!”
He uttered the concluding wicked word with such decisive and bitter
emphasis, that I began to think that he had done with the subject; but he
began again almost immediately.
“I wish to the Lord I had a business pursuit! If ever a fellow was tired
of his life, I am. Well—yes, I _am_ a young man; but it’s precious small
consolation that that fact brings me. Hang it, no! All the longer to
endure it. How long have I endured it? Ah, now you come to the point.
For years, you think, I daresay. You look at me, and you think to
yourself, ‘There goes a poor wretch who has been on the downhill road so
long that it’s time that he came to the end of it, or made an end to it.’
There you are mistaken. Eighteen months ago I was well dressed and
prosperous. I was second clerk to —, the provision merchants, in St.
Mary Axe, on a salary of a hundred and forty pounds—rising twenty each
year. Now look at me!
“You need not ask me how it came about. You say that you have seen me
often in Farringdon-street with the betting-men, so you can give a good
guess as to how I came to ruin, I’ll be bound. Yes, sir, it was
horse-betting that did my business. No, I did not walk to ruin with my
eyes open, and because I liked the road. I was trapped into it, sir, as
I’ll be bound scores and scores of young fellows have been. I never had
a passion for betting. I declare that, till within the last two years, I
never made a bet in my life. The beginning of it was, that, for the fun
of the thing, I wagered ten shillings with a fellow-clerk about the Derby
that was just about to come off. I never took any interest in
horseracing before; but when I had made that bet I was curious to look
over the sporting news, and to note the odds against the favourite. One
unlucky day I was fool enough to answer the advertisement of a
professional tipster. He keeps the game going still, curse him! You may
read his name in the papers this morning. If I wasn’t such an infernal
coward, you know, I should kill that man. If I hadn’t the money to buy a
pistol, I ought to steal one, and shoot the thief. But, what do you
think? I met him on Monday, and he chaffed me about my boots. It was
raining at the time. ‘I wish I had a pair of waterproofs like yours,
Bobby. You’ll never take cold while they let all the water out at the
heel they take in at the toe!’ Fancy me standing _that_ after the way he
had served me! Fancy this too—me borrowing a shilling of him, and saying
‘Thank you, sir,’ for it! Why, you know, I ought to be pumped on for
doing it!
“Yes, I wrote to ‘Robert B—y, Esq., of Leicester,’ and sent the
half-crown’s worth of stamps asked for. It doesn’t matter what I got in
return. Anyhow, it was something that set my mind on betting, and I
wrote again and again. At first his replies were of a distant and
business sort; but in a month or so after I had written to him to
complain of being misguided by him, he wrote back a friendly note to say
that he wasn’t at all surprised to hear of my little failures—novices
always did fail. They absurdly attempt what they did not understand.
‘Just to show you the difference,’ said he, ‘just give me a commission to
invest a pound for you on the Ascot Cup. All that I charge is seven and
a half per cent on winnings. Try it just for once; a pound won’t break
you, and it may open your eyes to the way that fortunes are made.’ I
ought to have known then, that either he, or somebody in London he had
set on, had been making inquiries about me, for the other notes were sent
to where mine were directed from—my private lodgings—but this one came to
me at the warehouse.
“Well, I sent the pound, and within a week received a post-office order
for four pounds eight as the result of its investment. The same week I
bet again—two pounds this time—and won one pound fifteen. That was over
six pounds between Monday and Saturday. ‘This _is_ the way that fortunes
are made,’ I laughed to myself, like a fool.
“Well, he kept me going, I don’t exactly recollect how, between Ascot and
Goodwood, which is about seven weeks, not more. Sometimes I won,
sometimes I lost, but, on the whole, I was in pocket. I was such a fool
at last, that I was always for betting more than he advised. I’ve got
his letters at home now, in which he says, ‘Pray don’t be rash; take my
advice, and bear in mind that great risks mean great losses, as well as
great gains, at times.’ Quite fatherly, you know! The infernal
scoundrel!
“Well, one day there came a telegram to the office for me. I was just in
from my dinner. It was from B—y. ‘Now you may bag a hundred pounds at a
shot,’ said he. ‘The odds are short, but the result _certain_. Never
mind the money just now. You are a gentleman, and I will trust you. You
know that my motto has all along been ‘Caution.’ Now it is ‘Go in and
win.’ It is _sure_. Send me a word immediately, or it may be too late;
and, if you are wise, put a ‘lump’ on it.’
“That was the infernal document—the death-warrant of all my good
prospects. It was the rascal’s candour that deceived me. He had all
along said, ‘Be cautious, don’t be impatient to launch out;’ and now this
patient careful villain saw his chance, and advised, ‘Go in and win.’ I
was quite in a maze at the prospect of bagging a hundred pounds. To win
that sum the odds were so short on the horse he mentioned, that fifty
pounds had to be risked. But he said that there was _no_ risk, and I
believed him. I sent him back a telegram at once to execute the
commission.
“The horse lost. I knew it next morning before I was up, for I had sent
for the newspaper; and while I was in the midst of my fright, up comes my
landlady to say that a gentleman of the name of B—y wished to see me.
“I had never seen him before, and he seemed an easy fellow enough. He
was in a terrible way—chiefly on my account—though the Lord only knew how
much _he_ had lost over the ‘sell.’ He had come up by express purely to
relieve my anxiety, knowing how ‘funky’ young gentlemen sometimes were
over such trifles. Although he had really paid the fifty in hard gold
out of his pocket, he was in no hurry for it. He would take my bill at
two months. It would be all right, no doubt. He had conceived a liking
for me, merely from my straightforward way of writing. Now that he had
had the pleasure of seeing me, he shouldn’t trouble himself a fig if the
fifty that I owed him was five hundred.
“I declare to you that I knew so little about bills, that I didn’t know
how to draw one out; but I was mighty glad to be shown the way and to
give it him, and thank him over and over again for his kindness. That
was the beginning of my going to the devil. If I hadn’t been a fool, I
might have saved myself even then, for I had friends who would have lent
or given me twice fifty pounds if I had asked them for it. But I _was_ a
fool. In the course of a day or two I got a note from B—y, reminding me
that the way out of the difficulty was by the same path as I had got into
one, and that a little judicious ‘backing’ would set me right before even
my bill fell due. And I was fool enough to walk into the snare. I
wouldn’t borrow to pay the fifty pounds, but I borrowed left and right,
of my mother, of my brothers, on all manner of lying pretences, to follow
the ‘advice’ B—y was constantly sending me. When I came to the end of
their forbearance, I did more than borrow; but that we won’t speak of.
In five months from the beginning, I was without a relative who would own
me or speak to me, and without an employer—cracked up, ruined. And
there’s B—y, as I said before, with his white hat cocked on one side of
his head, and his gold toothpick, chaffing me about my old boots. What
do I do for a living? Well, I’ve told you such a precious lot, I may as
well tell you that too. Where I lodge it’s a ‘leaving-shop,’ and the old
woman that keeps it can’t read or write, and I keep her ‘book’ for her.
That’s how I get a bit of breakfast and supper and a bed to lie on.”
[Since the above was written, the police, under the energetic guidance of
their new chief, have been making vigorous and successful warfare against
public gamblers and gambling agents. The “spec” dodge has been
annihilated, “betting-shops” have been entered and routed, and there is
even fair promise that the worst feature of the bad business, that which
takes refuge behind the specious cloak of the “commission-agent,” may be
put down. That it may be so, should be the earnest wish of all
right-thinking men, who would break down this barrier of modern and
monstrous growth, that blocks the advancement of social purity, and
causes perhaps more ruin and irreparable dismay than any other two of the
Curses herein treated of.]
VII.—Waste of Charity.