TRAPS FOR GULLS--HOW SPIDERS CATCH THE FLIES.
At the corner of a desponding thoroughfare in the neighbourhood of
Vauxhall is a chemist's shop, where every cure for every ailment is
dispensed. The thoroughfare is one of a numerous family of streets so
exactly alike in their melancholy aspect, that you can scarcely tell
one from another; they are all very sad-looking, and they are all
composed of rows of private houses, two stories high, exactly of a
height, and of a dismal flatness, which look dejectedly at one another
across the road. The name of Dr. Cadbury is over the door of the
chemist's shop, and a neat inscription on a brass plate informs the
public that the doctor may be consulted (gratis) at from 11 till 1
o'clock in the morning, and from 6 till 8 in the evening. It is a
queer-looking shop and wonderfully comprehensive, notwithstanding that
it is much cramped. The consultation-room is a small apartment at the
back of the shop, and, viewed from the outside, has quite a
pretentious appearance. The word "Surgery" over the door is suggestive
of dreadful instruments of bright steel, which shine with a savage
desire to cut into you; but there is really nothing to be alarmed at
in the apartment, the most noticeable article in it being a turn-up
bedstead; for at night it is converted into a sleeping apartment for
the doctor's assistant. This assistant, who has a passion for too much
bitter beer, and who tells the customers under the pledge of secrecy
that he is a partner in the concern, is a moon-faced, bald-headed man,
who has walked the hospitals, as the women whisper to one another. He
is mysteriously spoken of as being very highly connected, and he
continually talks of going down somewhere for a week's shooting; but
he never goes. His present lowly position is popularly supposed to be
due to his having been a little wild, and it is rumoured that he is in
hiding, which immensely enhances his reputation. The queer little shop
has quite a bustling appearance during the hours of consultation; but
very different pictures are presented in the morning and evening. In
the morning it is the males, who, chiefly in their dinner-hour, throng
to the doctor for his advice; but the evening is sacred to the wives.
As the consultation hour draws nigh, all the poor women in the
neighbourhood who are in an interesting condition gather together
until the little shop is crowded with them. They wait to consult the
"dear doctor"--he is such a dear man! they say to one another; and
while they wait they relate their experiences, and exchange
pleasantries with the moon-faced assistant. The doctor's fee for
confinements is only a guinea, attendance and medicine included, and
this guinea he sometimes takes in instalments, and sometimes does not
take at all--which is not his fault, but his misfortune. It is quite a
relaxation to the poor women to assemble together on these occasions;
and when they come away from their consultation, they have none but
words of praise for Dr. Cadbury, who is such a pleasant man, and has
told them such funny stories, that they declare they would send for
him--ah, that they would!--in the dead of night, if they lived ever so
far away. For which marks of favour Dr. Cadbury could not be, and
certainly was not, sufficiently grateful.
The doctor occupies only the ground-floor. Who occupies the upper
portion of the house? Let us step up and see. The first-floor will be
sufficient for our purpose.
It is the day after the running for the Northumberland Plate, and a
man about thirty-five years of age has just laid down a paper where he
has read, not for the first time, how that the morning opened
unfavourably at Newcastle, the rain pouring steadily down, and how the
sporting fraternity grew despondent in consequence; how deserted the
Newcastle streets were, when upon every previous Plate-day they had
been crowded with betting men; how the weather took a better turn
about noon, and hope revived in the ardent breasts of the men who laid
the odds and the dupes who took them; how the special trains from
Northumberland and Durham began to arrive with eager excursionists,
and matters began to look brighter; how all considerations of the
weather, and every other consideration whatsoever, paled to
insignificance before the news that a noble sportsman had insisted
that Christopher Sly, the sensational animal of the day, who had been
backed for pounds, shillings, and pence, should carry a ten pound
penalty for winning another race a short time since; how the question
was discussed and what excitement it caused, those who had backed the
horse trembling in their shoes lest they should be "done" out of their
soon-to-be winnings at the last moment; how the stewards were unable
to decide the point before the race, and how the horse declined in the
betting from 6 to 4 to 2 to 1, still being first favourite however;
how eight runners came to the starting-post, Christopher Sly being one
and looking as fresh as paint; how, after two or three false starts,
the horses were fairly slipped; how, soon afterwards, Christopher Sly
threw his jockey clean over his head, and then tumbled down and rolled
over the lad, who was carried off the field in an insensible state;
and how, after some other slight mishaps, an old horse, Taraban by
name, came in the winner, to the discomfiture of more persons than
one, and to the utter confusion, and if they have any shame in them
(which may be reasonably doubted), of every prophet and tipster in the
United Kingdom. All this and more the occupant of the room reads with
exceeding relish, slapping his thigh and rubbing his knees in delight,
as if it is the finest joke he had ever heard of.
"Not one of 'm thought of Taraban," he exclaims; "not one. What a sell
for the talent!"
He says this in a tone which implies that the "talent," whatever that
may be, is his natural enemy, and he rejoices in its discomfiture. The
furnishings of the room in which he sits are very simple--a deal
table, three or four chairs, and a safe. But that it is a room in
which serious work is performed is evident from the appearance of the
table, upon which are pens and ink, piles of letters, half a dozen
different descriptions of circulars, some account-books, and cuttings
from newspapers. From the addresses on the letters, the firm which he
represents must be an extensive one, comprising many partners. Here is
one pile addressed to Adolphus Fortescue, Post-office, Rugby; here is
another addressed to Horace St. John, 43, Diddledom-place, W.C.; here
is another addressed to James Middleman, Box 67, Post-office,
Leicester; here is another addressed to W. and B. Tracey, 87 1/2,
Essex-road, E.C.; and others to other names and other addresses, all
of which he has opened with his own hand, as if he were one and all of
these persons combined. Perhaps he is; he looks confident enough and
shrewd enough to be a score of men in one. Perhaps his own proper
name, which any detective would be able to tell you without going to
the bottom of a well to seek for it, is too common a one for his
profession; and if the success of that profession depended on the
catching of gudgeons, the presumption is that many an unwary one which
would have turned up its nose at plain Smith or Robinson would for a
certainty fall into the spicy trap labelled Adolphus Fortescue or
Horace St. John. But, unexplained, it is a very riddle to the simple
and uninitiated. Riddle me riddle me ree, tell me who this man can be?
Perhaps some of the documents on the table will supply a clue to the
seeming mystery. Here is an advertisement cut out of a sporting
newspaper. What does it say?
"An Absolute Moral for the Doncaster St. Leger. Horace St. John is in
possession of certain important information concerning this race,
which he is willing to impart to Gentlemen and to no others. The Horse
that will Win is a dark horse, and has been reserved especially for
the Leger. No one else is in the secret, except the Stable, and they
have kept it dark, and intend to back it for every shilling they can
raise. Not one of the favourites has a chance. Horace St. John is no
vulgar tipster, but a Gentleman moving in the very Highest Circles,
and his honour is unimpeachable. A TERRIFIC Sum will be won upon this
Moral Certainty, which will absolutely WALK IN. But remember--only to
Gentlemen will this secret be imparted, and only upon the
understanding that it will not be imparted to outsiders. At present,
100 to 1 can be obtained. This is the greatest certainty in the annals
of racing. Send immediately 5_s_. worth of postage-stamps and your
Word of Honour that, after the race, you will remit five per cent of
your winnings to Horace St. John, 43, Diddledom-place, W.C., and the
name of the horse with all particulars will be forwarded by return
post. Subscribers, remember the enormous sums you won over H. St. J.'s
tip for the Derby--remember his earnest words, 'The Zephyr Colt and no
other'--and send at once, before the bookmakers take the alarm. To
those who wish H. St. J. to undertake their commissions for them, 100
to 1 will be obtained."
Here is another advertisement, in which James Middleman, Box 67,
Post-office, Leicester, vindictively advises you (impressing it upon
you after the manner of Macbeth's Witches) to--
"Break the Ring! Break the Ring! Break the Ring! If you want to know
the Winner of the Chester Cup, send six stamps and a stamped directed
envelope for the greatest certainty on the face of the earth. Break
the Ring! Now or never! Now's the day, and Now's the hour! Faint
hearts never won great fortunes yet. Trust not to stable-boys and
specious impostors, but send six stamps and a stamped directed
envelope immediately to James Middleman, and reach the height of your
cupidity! (_sic_.) The horse could win with three stones more on his
back. The greatest _coup_ on record. Now or never! James Middleman,
Box 67, Post-office, Leicester."
Here is an advertisement from W. and B. Tracey, who "implore you not
to throw away your money upon ignorant tipsters, whose worthless
selections will bring you to ruin. Send a stamped envelope for our
system--our infallible system--by which loss is rendered an
impossibility. £10,000 is waiting for you this season. With a capital
of £5, a fortune is certain. Be wise in time."
Here is another, addressed,
"To gentlemen of honour.--A Turfite of high position (recent owner of
race-horses and member of Tattersall's) desires to communicate the
Winner of the Goodwood Stakes to Gentlemen who will Pledge their
Honour to respect his confidence, and send him ten guineas from
winnings. This advertisement emanates from no common tipster, and well
merits the confidence of the public. To prevent merely inquisitive and
unprincipled persons from benefiting by it, a post-office order (or
stamps) for 7s. 6d. must accompany each application."
But, indeed, you may spend hours in reading the traps for the unwary
set by the person who occupies the room, and who is known to his
private friends as Con Stavely. He is a sharp cunning rogue indeed,
and has as many aliases as Argus had eyes; and the mine in which he
digs is rich enough, in all conscience, to make the fortunes of a
thousand such rogues as he. Gulls and dupes abound, and it has become
part of our social system that, turn which way you will, spiders may
be seen lying in wait for flies.
Some of Con Staveley's systems are simplicity itself. It was only last
week that, in the innocence of his heart, he was explaining to an
intimate friend the machinery of one which seldom failed to bring
grist to his mill.
"It is very easy," said Con. "Here, now; the Northumberland Plate is
going to be run for. You advertise, a fortnight or three weeks
beforehand, that you will send the winner for twelve stamps, and a
promise of five per cent. on their winnings. Throw in something strong
when you write the advertisement. Say you will forfeit a thousand
pounds if the horse you send doesn't win, or that you will eat the
horse, or something of that sort. Plenty of fools'll believe you.
You'll get lots of answers, and any number of stamps--more than enough
to pay for your advertisements six times over. Well, then, you make a
list of the horses that are likely to start for the Plate. You've only
got to know the ropes to do this easily. There won't be many starters;
about ten or a dozen, probably. Here is your list:--The Boy. The
Dwarf. Christopher Sly. Mineral. Taraban. Lord Hawthorne. Falkland.
Cap-à-pie. Myosotis. Miss Hervine. You get some circulars printed,
leaving a space to write in the name of the horse."
"But why," asked Con's friend, "send answers at all? Why not stick to
the stamps and have done with it?"
Con Stavely winked, thrust his tongue into his cheek, put a wing to
his nose, and in other delicate ways asserted the superiority of his
judgment to that of his friend.
"My very worthy and particular," he replied oracularly, "you've got a
thing or two to learn before you're quite awake. Why? Because it pays
better the other way. To each one of your subscribers you send a
circular, with the name of one of the horses from your list, so that
if you get three hundred subscribers, and divide the list fairly,
there will be thirty subs to every horse. Of course the circular says
that it is impossible for the horse to lose; that the stable are
backing it heavily, and all that sort of thing. Well, one of the
horses wins--Taraban, Christopher Sly, or any other--it doesn't matter
which. Then you look out the names of the subs to whom you sent the
winning horse, and you send them congratulatory letters--you hope they
have won a pot, and that they will send you a percentage on their
winnings; you've got a rare good tip for the next big race, which you
will be glad to send to them. You'll get something from them, depend
upon it, if it's only half-a-crown's worth of stamps. A fellow sent me
a fiver only last week, and I've got plenty of post-office orders for
sovs. That's the reason why, my worthy particular. Because it pays
better, and because" (tapping his nose with his finger knowingly)
"honesty's the best policy."
If all Con Stavely's systems are as simple as this one, gulls must
abound, indeed, to make them profitable.
As Con Stavely sits and smokes and works on this summer afternoon, he
hears an uncertain foot upon the stairs.
"It's the old un," he says.
The reference to the "old un," which to uninstructed ears might have
borne a diabolical signification, applies to an old man--older than
his years, which may be about fifty--who presently enters the room. An
old man, with restless eyes that seek the ground, as if fearful of
looking any one in the face; a very shabby, sad, and worn old man. All
his clothes are too large for him, and are kept together by a very few
buttons and a great many pins.
"Well, Muzzy," says Con, "got plenty of letters?"
Muzzy, with trembling hands, produces letters from every pocket, and
deposits them on the table. All these letters are addressed to Captain
Leonard Maginn, who, as represented by Muzzy, is certainly not a
credit to the army; and they all contains stamps from persons eager to
be let into the precious secret which Captain Maginn, otherwise Muzzy,
is willing to impart to them for a trifling consideration.
"Is this the lot, Muzzy?" inquires Con Staveley, when the old man has
completed the slow process of emptying his pockets.
"Yes, Mr. Con, that's the lot," is the answer, in a shaky, hesitating
voice.
"Haven't kept a few stamps back to get drunk with, eh, Muzzy?"
"No, sir; no, Mr. Con," in querulously indignant tones, and with a
vain endeavour to express injured innocence with his eyes; but he
can't get them to the level of Con's face, strive as he may. "I
haven't kept a few stamps back, Mr. Con. You ought to know better,
Mr. Con, than to ask me such a question. I don't want them, sir, I
don't want them. I backed the winner yesterday; I backed the old
horse. I put a dollar on him, and the governor said he'd get me
starting-prices--twelve to one, that's what the old horse started at."
"Why, who put Taraban into your head?" asks Con, good-humouredly, as
he opens the letters Muzzy has brought. "Not one of the prophets went
for him. You ought to set up in business for yourself, if you're as
clever as that."
"No, sir; no, Mr. Con; I'm too old, sir--too old. My time's gone by.
If I were younger, as young as you, Mr. Con, I'd make a fortune. I'll
tell you how I spotted the winner, Mr. Con. I wrote the names of the
horses on pieces of paper, sir, and shook 'em up in a hat, and the
first one I drew out was Taraban so I backed him for a dollar. Back
your luck, always, Mr. Con, if you want to win; back your luck
always."
Muzzy's voice and his hands and his whole body tremble and shake in
sympathy, as he relates the luck that has befallen him.
"I hear the governor's step," he says. "Yes, that's him, on the
stairs. I'll ask him for my twelve dollars."
"You're precious sharp on him, Muzzy; it isn't settling-day yet."
"I know it isn't, Mr. Con, I know it isn't; but the governor's always
good to me. I'll give him a dollar if he let's me have the money now.
I'll take eleven dollars--eleven fives are fifty-five. That's good
interest, Mr. Con, and that's what the governor likes."
"Hullo, Muzzy," exclaims Mr. David Sheldrake, as he enters the room,
"what are you shaking and quavering about for, eh? How much did you
back Taraban for altogether?"
With an easy nod to Con Stavely, Mr. Sheldrake seats himself and
lights a cigar.
"Only a dollar, sir, only a dollar with you," replies Muzzy. "I'd have
backed it for more--for all I could raise--but a dollar was all I had,
and I couldn't raise another shilling."
"Just like your luck, eh, Muzzy?"
"Yes, sir, just like my luck. I've spotted many a winner, sir, and
never had the money to back them. But luck's been against me all my
life, sir--all my life!"
He passes the back of his hand slowly across his mouth half a dozen
times, and stands looking timidly at Mr. Sheldrake, with an uncertain
look in his eyes.
"Well, Muzzy, what do you want now?" asks Mr. Sheldrake, with an
inward chuckle, knowing the old man's thoughts.
"I thought, sir, you might be so good as to pay me the odds on
Taraban. I'm in want of money, sir, badly, very badly."
"To get drunk with, eh?"
"No, sir; I don't drink, sir; I've given it up," cries Muzzy, with no
consciousness that everything about him gives the lie to his words.
"I've taken the pledge a dozen times--a dozen times, sir, and I'll
take it again if you want me to."
Mr. Sheldrake laughs; but something in the old man's earnest imploring
manner makes him suddenly serious, and he gazes attentively at the
shaking form before him.
"Listen to me, old man," he says impressively.
Muzzy leans forward to denote obedience.
"Look at me."
But Muzzy finds it impossible to comply with this demand. He raises
his eyes a dozen times, but he cannot control them. Invariably they
seek the ground.
"I see you, sir," he murmurs apologetically.
"Do you think it possible that you could look respectable if you had a
respectable task to perform?"
"Yes, sir, I think so; I am sure so, sir; but I should want better
clothes than these," in apology for his rags.
"And possible to keep sober, if it was worth your while?"
"I'll take a solemn oath, sir, not to touch another drop of drink as
long as I live--not another drop! Shall I take my oath now? I'll take
it this minute, sir, upon the book!"
In his eagerness he takes up a betting-book, and stands waiting for
the word of command.
"Put down the book, you old fool! When I want you to take your oath,
I'll let you know."
"Ready at any time, sir--at any minute." Which is literally true.
"And when I want you to turn over a new leaf----"
"As many as you please, sir; I'm ready."
"You'd better do, if you don't want to go to the dogs. What would you
do if I were to say, 'Muzzy, old man, I've got no farther use for
you?' How would you live? Tell me that."
Mr. Sheldrake knows that he is striking terror to the old man, for he
is the only friend Muzzy has in the world. Muzzy, standing in abject
humility before his patron and master, has no proper idea what a
valuable servant he is to that gentleman, not that the dirty work
which he performs for his employer would be poorly paid if he received
his wages threefold. All that he is conscious of is that he is an old
man, very feeble, very shaky, fit for nothing but the work--if it can
be called so--he is engaged in, and that it is in Mr. Sheldrake's
power to deprive him of the only pleasure the world affords--the
pleasure of getting drunk in private.
"I'll do my best, sir," he says humbly. "You may depend on the old
man, sir. He's a little bit shaky sometimes, but Muzzy's to be
depended on."
"All right, then; you can go now."
But still Muzzy lingers, passing the back of his hand over his mouth
with a parched air. When he has mustered sufficient courage to speak,
he says,
"Taraban started at twelve to one, didn't he, sir?"
"That's the price, Muzzy, and I wish I'd known what you knew, you old
dog."
"I only had a dollar on, sir--it was the last I had in the world. I'll
take eleven dollars if you'll settle with me now, sir. The landlady'll
be down on me for my rent to-night, and I haven't a copper to buy a
loaf with."
Mr. Sheldrake pays Muzzy two pounds fifteen shillings, retaining the
odd crown for interest, and the old man slouches out of the room and
into the streets, and when he is near a favourite public-house, gives
the lie direct to his earnest words.
No one who knew him had ever seen him take a glass of liquor at a
public-house bar. His enjoyment was indulged in secretly. He would
linger about the public-house where he bought his liquor until a small
bar marked "private" was empty; and then he would slink in, and,
without a word, take a bottle and place it upon the counter, casting
apprehensive looks at the door lest any one should come in and detect
him. The barman, knowing his wants, would fill the bottle. If Muzzy
was rich, he would produce a second bottle from another pocket, this
the barman would also fill. Quickly placing the bottles in his pocket,
Muzzy would lay upon the counter the exact price of the liquor (having
provided himself beforehand with the necessary change), and glide
swiftly away. Hugging the bottles to his breast, hiding them so that
no one should see, or even, as he believed, suspect, Muzzy would make
his way to his garret, and lock the door. Then he would experience
thrills of pleasure at the prospect before him, and he would sit and
drink and drink and mumble until every drop was gone; then he would
sigh and wish for more.
Such was the bad sweetness which life contained for this ill-starred
man.