I never saw such a cheerful face as Jerry's. Master Blackey can smile
and smile; he can smile on me even now, though I know almost to a
certainty that it was he who left that discoloured ring round my throat
not long ago. But Blackey can scowl also, whereas Jerry never ceases to
look benignant and jolly. He is a fine young fellow is Jerry, six feet
high, straight as a lance, ruddy, clear-skinned, and with the bluest,
brightest eye you can see. When he walks he is upright and stately as
the best of Guardsmen, without any military stiffness; when he spars he
is active as a leopard, and his mode of landing with his left is at once
terrible and artistic. Sometimes he drinks a little too much, and then
his sweet smile becomes fatuous, but he never is unpleasant. The girls
from the factory admire him sincerely; they call him Merry Jerry, and
he accepts their homage with serenity. He never takes the trouble to
show any deference towards his admirers; their amorous glances and
giggling are inevitable tributes to his fascinations, and he takes it
all as a matter of course. Like Blackey and the Ramper, Jerry never does
any work, and he is supposed to have private means. His speech is quite
correct, and even elegant, and although he does not converse on exalted
topics, he is a singularly pleasant companion in his way. Most of his
talk is about horse-racing, and he never reads anything but the sporting
papers. In that taste he resembles most of those who go to The Chequers.
The wrangling, the cursing, the whispered confidences that make up the
nightly volume of noise nearly all have reference to racing subjects.
The raggedest wretch at the bar puts on horsey airs when any great race
is to be decided; he may not know a horse from a mule, but he invariably
volunteers his opinion, and if he can raise a shilling he backs his
fancy. Polite gentlemen in Parliament and elsewhere do not appear to
know that there are something like one million British adults whose
chief interest in life (apart from their necessary daily work) is
centred on racing. I think I know almost every town in England, and I
never yet in all my wanderings settled at an inn without finding that
betting of some sort or other formed the main subject of conversation.
Hundreds of times--literally hundreds--I have known whole evenings
devoted to discussing the odds. The gamblers were usually men who did
not care to see horses gallop; they chatted about names, and that
satisfied them. A clerk, a mechanic, a tradesman, a traveller, a
publican asks his friend what he has done over such and such a race,
just as he asks after the friend's health. It is taken for granted that
everybody bets, and really intelligent fellows will stare at you in
astonishment if you say that you are not interested in the result of a
race. If I chose to make a book--only dealing in small sums--I could
contrive to win a fair amount every week by merely "betting to figures."
The bookmaker does not need to visit a racecourse; he is required to
work out a sort of algebraical problem on each race, and, by exercising
a little shrewdness, he may leave himself a small balance on every
event. Small sums in silver are always forthcoming to almost any
extent, and a clever man who has no more than £100 capital to start with
may pitch his tent almost anywhere, and make sure of getting plenty of
custom. People speak of the Italians as gamblers, but in Italy gambling
is not nearly so prevalent as in England. In Manchester alone one
sporting journal has a morning and evening edition, and there are daily
papers in most of the large Yorkshire towns. In the North-country I have
often watched the workmen during the breakfast half-hour, and found that
they did not care a rush for anything in the paper save the sporting
news. In London two great journals are published daily, and twice a week
each of them issues a double number. Every line of these papers is
devoted to sport, and each of them is a rich estate to the proprietor.
The mania for betting grows more acute every day, the number of wealthy
bookmakers increases, and the national demoralisation has reached a
depth which would seem inconceivable to anyone who has not lived with
all sorts and conditions of men. A racing man is apt to become incapable
of concentrating his mind on anything except his one pursuit. Hundreds
of thoughtful and cultured people race a little and bet a little by way
of relaxation; but these take no harm. It is the ignorant, ill-balanced
folk, without higher interests, who suffer.
Well-meaning persons spend money on respectable institutes for working
men, but the men do not care for staid, dull proceedings after their
work is over; they want excitement. A moderately heavy bet supplies them
with a topic for conversation; it gives them all the keen pleasures of
anticipation as the day of the race draws near, and when they open the
paper to see the final result they are thrilled just as a gambler is
thrilled when he throws the dice. No wonder that the mild and moral
places of recreation are left empty; no wonder that the public-houses
are well filled. If I were asked to name two things which interest the
English nation to the supreme degree, I should say--first, Sport;
second, Drink. If the strongest Ministry that ever took office attempted
to make betting a criminal offence, they would be turned out in a month.
Betting is now not a casual amusement, but a serious national pursuit.
The perfect honesty with which payments are made by agents is amazing.
A man who bets on commission for others may have £100,000 to lay out on
a race; every farthing is accounted for, and dishonesty among the higher
grades of the betting brotherhood is practically unknown. It is this
rigid observance of the point of honour that tempts people like our gang
in The Chequers bar to risk their shillings; they know that if they make
a right guess their payment is safe. The statesman who called the turf
"a vast instrument of national demoralization" was quite right, and if
he could have lived to take a tour round the country in this year of
grace he would have seen the flower of his nation given over to mean
frivolity.
Jerry has tutored me in racing matters. He has not a thought that is not
derived from the columns of the sporting prints, and his life is passed
mainly in searching like a staunch terrier for "certainties." When he is
disposed to be communicative, he soon gathers quite an audience in The
Chequers, and should he drop a phrase like "George Robinson said to me,
'I've made my own book for Highflyer,'" or "Charley White, the Duke's
Motto, wouldn't lay Mountebank any more," the awe-stricken costers
stare. Here is a man, a regular toff, and no error--a man who knows
such Ringmen as Robinson and White--and yet he will speak to ordinary
coves without exhibiting the least pride!
Jerry has taken me round to the best haunts where gallant sportsmen
assemble, and for some mysterious reason, his escort has secured for me
the most flattering deference. Queer holes he knows by the score. I
thought I had seen most things; but I find I am a babe compared with
Jerry. He once said to me, "Would you like to see a couple of lads
set-to? Real good 'uns." I had seen a great number of encounters; but my
two pounds handed over to Jerry procured me a sight of a battle which
was the most desperate affair I ever witnessed. But for the close,
oppressive atmosphere of the room where the fight took place, the whole
business would have been interesting. The spectators were well dressed
and well behaved, the boxers were beautiful athletes, and there was
nothing repulsive about the swift exchange of lightning blows until the
baking heat began to tell on the men; then it was disagreeable to see
two gallant fellows panting and labouring for breath. We often hear
that boxing is discredited. Rubbish! Ask Jerry about that, and you will
learn that any company of men who care to subscribe £25 may see a combat
wherein science, courage, and endurance are all displayed lavishly.
Jerry was much interested in dog fighting, which latter pleasing pastime
is enjoyed quite freely in London to an extent that would amaze the
gentlemen who rejoice over the decline of brutality in Britain.
The competitive instinct which once found vent in fighting and conquest
now works on other lines. The Englishman must be engaged in a contest,
or he is unhappy, and, since he cannot now compete sword to sword with
his fellow-creatures, he fights purse to purse instead. All these things
I knew in a vague way, but Jerry has made my knowledge definite and
secure.
As for the man himself, I soon found that his "private means" were taken
in various ways from other people's pockets. During a chat, he said,
"You know you're not what you pretend to be. You hang about there, and
you bet, but you never bet enough to make anything at it. You must have
the coins, for I've seen you spend a quid in two hours in the
skittle-alley. But you don't seem to best anybody. What _is_ your game?
You may as well tell me."
"I amuse myself in my own way, and I don't care to let the school know
much about me."
"Well, my game's very simple. Only a juggins or a horse ever works, and
I don't intend to do any. It's just as easy to be idle as not. You take
the fellows in town that make their living after dark, and you always
see them having good times. There's some red-hot ones up--you know
where--in Piccadilly; they never get about till close on dinner time,
but they make up for lost time when they _are_ about. I should like to
work with you. If you were to come out a bit flash like me, why, with
your looks and your talk and that _educated_ kind of way you've got, you
might coin money."
"But you wouldn't care to work the Embankment and run the risk of the
cat, as those Piccadilly chaps do?"
"No fear. But you could do better than that. When you're boozed you're
not in it--you lose your head; but when you're right you make fellows
wonder what you are. Sink me! A flat would pal on to you in half an hour
if you coaxed him, as you can do it."
Jerry is an amusing philosopher, who could only have been developed in
the rottenness of a decadence. Fancy an able-bodied, attractive fellow
living with ease from day to day without doing a stroke of honest
labour. He keeps clear of the police; he gratifies every want, yet he
has the intellect of a flash potman and the manners of a valet. The
tribe swarm in this city, and I reckon that they will teach us something
when the overturn comes. They are strong and cunning predatory animals,
who will direct weak and stupid predatory animals, and when the entire
predatory tribe smash the flimsy bonds with which society holds them in
check for the present, then stand by for ugly times.
I hate the revolver, but I am glad that I took to carrying one in time.
Jerry and I grew so intimate, and I saw so much of his inner mind, that
I judged it better to make no midnight excursions in his company without
being ready for accidents. He is most humorous when he has wine in him,
and his humour is a shade too grim for my taste.
We came home lately in a cab, after seeing a pretty little light-weight
from Birmingham receive a severe dressing at the hands of a pocket
Hercules from Bethnal Green. Jerry was in wild spirits, and his usual
charming smile had broadened into a grin. Nothing would suit him but
that I should go to his rooms.
"My aunt keeps house for me, and she's sure to be up, and my sister's
there as well."
The notion of Jerry's dwelling calmly with his aunt and his sister was
very touching, and my curiosity was roused. The aunt turned out to be a
placid woman with a low voice; the sister was too florid and loud for my
fancy. We played at whist, and in the intervals between the games we
tested Jerry's wine. He has a singularly good selection. The florid
nymph was reserved and coy at first, but as the wine mounted she rather
astonished me by her choice of expletives. The merry one had become
business-like, and that sweet smile was gone. As I looked at him I
gradually understood that I had once more made a fool of myself, and I
vowed that if I got out safely I would go to The Chequers no more.
Over-confidence is a bad fault in a prize-fighter: it is worse than that
in the case of a man who wishes to hold his own among London sharps.
Blackey had the best of me, and now I was in for a much worse business,
Jerry the Amiable drank ostentatiously, and he was evidently priming
himself; the sister waxed effusive, and the aunt took care that the
points were steadily increased. In the early morning the Amiable
suggested that I should stay, but I would not have slept under the same
roof with him for gold. He then ordered his relatives off to bed, and
they slunk away rather like dogs than ladies. Jerry was a masterful man.
When all was quiet I rose to take my hat, whereupon Jerry remarked,
"You're not going that way, are you?"
"Must go home before it's too light."
"You'll have another drink?"
"No."
"But you will!"
The Amiable was really extremely exacting.
"Thanks. Good morning."
Jerry locked the door, and put his back to it. Then he softly said,
"You've come home and taken my liquor; you flirt with my sister, and
you're going away without leaving so much as a bit of gold. I'm not such
a fool as Blackey. I know your aunt. I can send a newspaper to her
address, and cook _your_ goose. Suppose I make a row. I can do that, and
we'll both be taken up for brawling outside a house of ill-fame. It
won't matter to me; I'm used to it. But you'll be spoofed. Now, share up
with an old pal, and I'll keep dark."
I had contrived to edge away from him, and I had time to produce the
detestable firearm in a leisurely way.
"You're very kind, Jerry, my lad. I'll stay at this side of the room,
and I shan't fire so long as you keep still. If you try to strike or put
your hand in your pocket I shall pull on you; If you care to raise your
arms over your head and move to the right-hand corner of the room I'll
go quietly."
Jerry reckoned up all the chances and finally edged away from the door.
"Hands up, Jerry."
He obeyed, and I escaped into the street. Jerry is a coward at bottom,
or he might have known that I dare not fire.
He met me the very next day, and he wore the usual free, gay smile. He
held out his hand and flashed his teeth: "Forget that nonsense last
night, old pal. When the booze is in--you know the rest. I was only
having a lark. What'll you have? We shall be glad to see you round
again."
But Mr. Landlord had dropped a word to me only half an hour before. Said
Mr. Landlord, in answer to a little careless pumping, "Oh, Jerry? Well,
it ain't no business of mine, but if it wasn't for the girls he'd have
mighty few flash top-coats, nor beefsteaks neither for that matter."
Alas! Jerry, the smiling, delightful youth, is one of those odious pests
who hang about in sporting company, and who are contemned and shunned by
respectable racing men. Said a grave turfite to me last week, "Call
_those_ sportsmen! I'd--I'd--" but he could not invent a doom horrid
enough for them, so he changed the subject with a mighty snort.
There is no knowing what gentlemen like Jerry will do. To call them
scoundrels is to flatter them: they are brigands, and the knifing,
lounging rascals of Sicily and Calabria are mere children in villany
compared with their English imitators. Places like The Chequers are the
hunting-grounds of creatures like Jerry, and the bait of drink draws the
victims thither ready to be sacrificed. A month ago four of Jerry's gang
most heartlessly robbed a publican who had sold his business. He had the
purchase-money in his pocket, and the fellows drugged him. He ought to
have known better, seeing how often he had watched the brigands
operating on other people; but as he lost £700, and as his assailants
are still at large with their shares of the spoil, we must not reproach
him or add to his misery.
I picked out Jerry for portraiture because he is a fairly typical
specimen of a bad--a very bad--set. When the history of our decline and
fall comes to be Written by some Australian Gibbon, the historian may
choose the British bully and turfite to set alongside of the awful
creatures who preyed on the rich fools of wicked old Rome.