THE NIGHT HOUSES OF THE HAYMARKET.
IF any of the Bucks of the sixties were suddenly brought to life and
placed in the centre of Piccadilly Circus, no labyrinth could more
completely puzzle them than the structural alterations of to-day.
Abutting on to where Shaftesbury Avenue commences was a dismal row of
houses, with here and there an outlet into the purlieus of more dismal
Soho; where the obstruction for the accommodation of flower-sellers now
raises its useless head, another block of houses ran eastwards, dividing
the present broad expanse into two narrow thoroughfares; the huge
monument to the profitable industry in intoxicating drinks takes the
place of the ancient “Pic,” and the Haymarket, from the exalted position
of centre of the surging mass of nocturnal corruption, has descended to
the status of a dimly-lighted thoroughfare, with here and there an
unlicensed Italian restaurant and a sprinkling of second-class
pot-houses.
Instead of the promenade from which strollers are now hustled off the
pavement by a zealous police, the strip between Windmill Street and the
Raleigh Club was the favoured lounge, and the Haymarket literally blazed
with light (till daylight) from such temples as the “Blue Posts,”
Barnes’s, The Burmese, and Barron’s Oyster Rooms. This latter place,
although palpably suffering from old age and the ravages of time, and
propped up by beams innumerable, was the nightly rendezvous of
oyster-eaters, where, sandwiched in between “loose boxes” upstairs and
down, champagne and other drinks were consumed to excess.
Often amid these sounds of revelry, ominous cracks and groans warned the
revellers that all was not right, till on one never-to-be-forgotten night
a sound that vibrated like the crack of doom caused a stampede, and
leaving wine, oysters, hats, unpaid bills, every one rushed
helter-skelter into the street. Old Barron, staring disconsolately from
the pavement at his fast-collapsing house, suddenly appeared to remember
that his cash-box was in the doomed building, and rushing frantically in,
was seen hurrying out with the prized treasure. And then a crash that
might have quailed the stoutest heart rang through the night, and Barron,
cash-box, and lights, all disappeared in a cloud of dust that ascended up
to heaven. Days after the old man was found firmly clutching his
treasure. Let us hope its possession compensated him in his passage
across the Styx.
The decorous Panton Street of to-day was another very sink of iniquity.
Night houses abounded, and Rose Burton’s and Jack Percival’s were
sandwiched between hot baths of questionable respectability and
abominations of every kind. Stone’s Coffee House was the only redeeming
feature, and, as it existed in those days, was a very spring of water in
a dry land.
But it must not be assumed that, although Percival’s was a “night house,”
it was to be classed with its next door neighbours. Here the sporting
fraternity radiated after all important events; here Heenan lodged after
his fight with Tom King; and one can see him—as if it were
yesterday—receiving his friends and backers on the following Sunday with
his handsome features incrusted in plaster of Paris and smiling as if he
had been awarded the victory he was undoubtedly choused out of.
But perhaps no spot has undergone more structural and social change than
Arundel Place, an unpretentious court that leads out of Coventry Street.
At one corner now stands a tobacconist’s shop, and at the other an eating
bar, where hunks of provender are devoured at the counter, and cocoa
retailed at a penny a bucket; whilst the court itself is practically
absorbed by the Civil Service Stores, through whose windows “gentlemen”
may be seen weighing out coffee, and “bald-headed noblemen” tying up
parcels.
In the sixties, however, the place had considerably more vitality—after
nightfall. On the eastern side stood a public-house of unenviable
repute, owned by an ex-prizefighter, to which the fraternity congregated
in considerable numbers; whilst at the end furthest from Coventry Street
was a coffee-house, whose open portals discovered nothing more dangerous
than an oil-clothed floor, chairs and tables over its surface, and an
unassuming counter for the supply of moderate refreshments. During the
day a spirit of repose pervaded the entire area; the public-house
appeared to be doing little or no trade, whilst the coffee-house was
chiefly remarkable for the persistent scrubbing and emptying of buckets
that went on, as a mechanical charwoman, in the inevitable bonnet,
oscillated to and fro between the door and the pavement. But for the old
woman, and an occasional apparition in a startling check costume that
flashed in and out between the coffee-house and the pot-house, one might
have imagined the entire place was uninhabited, so subdued and reposeful
was everything.
Tall and angular by nature, with skin-tight overalls and a coat the
colour of a Camden Town ’bus, Jerry Fry was the undisputed landlord of
the unpretentious coffee-house, and recognised director of a gang of
sharpers who made human nature their study, and scoured the highways and
byways nightly in search of profitable quarry. Not that the above
costume was the sole one in Jerry’s extensive wardrobe, which boasted
amongst others the huge cape and whip associated with rustic drivers, a
clerical outfit, evening clothes, and a white tie the size of a poultice.
Jerry as a strategist was without a rival, and it requires but little
effort of imagination to assume that he has turned in his grave times
innumerable in the contemplation of the sorry sharpers of the present era
who have usurped his functions in the despoiling of their species. Any
promising subject that appeared on the horizon immediately became the
object of Jerry’s personal solicitude, and once the victim’s besetting
sin was accurately diagnosed, no time was lost in placing a specialist on
his unsuspecting track. It was not long after the arrival of the “Line”
garrison in London that George Hay was focussed as an inveterate gambler,
and as the “Landed Gentry” vouched for his being the eldest son of a
county magnate, no time was lost in laying lines in every direction in
the hope of catching him. Not that play—in which he was by no means an
expert—was his only delight; on the contrary, he excelled in every kind
of manly sport, and could hold his own with the gloves with many a man
who had the advantage of him in height and weight.
When in the country cards never entered his mind; in London, however,
with the fascination ever before him, the temptation was irresistible,
and the three fly-blown cards of a racecourse manipulator or _chemin de
fer_ at the Arlington held him like a vice whilst the fever was upon him.
It was a sultry evening in September when everybody (except four
millions) was out of town that George and Bobby elected to stroll to the
West End after an uneventful dinner at mess. Threading their way through
the slums that abutted on the Tower, nothing worthy of record occurred
till, casually stopping to light a cigar, they were accosted on the
threshold of Leicester Square by a courteous individual who asked for a
light.
George was nothing if he was not a gentleman, and without waiting to
consider why the person should seek a light from him when gas jets were
blazing outside every shop, he considerately acceded.
But the stranger apparently was of a sociable disposition, and persisted
in hanging on to their skirts and essaying remarks on objects on their
way.
“What have we here?” he inquired as, passing Arundel Place, a dense crowd
outside the pot-house riveted his attention. “The fight, of course,” he
continued, “the seconds and backers are squaring up, I expect. Will you
step in, gentlemen, it’s all right, but I’d better perhaps go in and
inquire, they all know me; one minute, gents, by your leave,” and he
disappeared into the crowded court.
“Shall we go in, George,” inquired Bobby, “or have a peep at the ‘Pic’?
D— it! we must have some sport after twenty-four hours of the Tower.”
“Go in? Of course we will if there’s anything to be seen,” answered
George; “I’m half-inclined to shake up my liver by arranging with Ben
Caunt to resume my ‘studies’ at the Tower, and there’s one consolation,
Bobby, it’s not as expensive as the Arlington, and we haven’t much to
lose if they do pick our pockets.”
So summed up the situation Solon George, as their cicerone made his
reappearance.
“Right, gents; step this way,” intimated the stranger; “but we had best
wait awhile in the coffee-house yonder; leave it to me to give you the
tip,” and without further ado they all entered the hostelry.
George, with all his common sense, was a very tyro in the rudiments of
the unwritten law of knavery, and certainly no match for a shrewd London
rascal; to enter into conversation with an absolute stranger appeared
nothing extraordinary to him, and when a punching match was the basis of
the acquaintance, and the chance of meeting certain leading—if
illiterate—lights of the fraternity the prospect, conventionalism with
him was an infinitesimal quantity, and he entered into the sport with the
enthusiasm of a schoolboy.
“But why here?” inquired George, as they found themselves the sole
occupants of the oilclothed room.
“Wait a bit, gents, they’ll come presently,” replied their cicerone;
“I’ve given them the office, but they’re a bit busy just now settling up
the scores for this morning, maybe.” And then he proceeded with what
purported to be a personal description of the fight, looking frequently
at a huge clock that ticked in the corner, and fervently hoping that
Jerry would not be long.
Bobby meanwhile was champing his bit, and bewailing the time that might
so much more profitably have been passed at the “Pic,” when a man in the
immaculate disguise of a coachman walked hurriedly through the room.
Peering into every corner, and examining crevices that a cat would have
been incommoded in, he hurriedly approached our heroes, and asked
excitedly whether they had seen a gentleman such as he described.
Without waiting for a reply, he next dropped his whip and rug on to a
vacant chair, and whipping out a pack of cards, continued: “It drives me
mad to think I should have lost such a stupid game; but I was drunk,
gentlemen—forgive the admission—yes, drunk; but he has promised me my
revenge here to-night,” and pulling out a watch the size of a frying-pan,
he contemplated it as if wrapt in thought. Replacing it with a spasmodic
jerk, he continued: “Just fancy, gentlemen, this was the simple thing;
but I was drunk, alas!—happy thought, ’ware drink,” and he gave a halloa
such as foxhunters give on the stage, and proceeded to rattle three
cards.
“Now, gentlemen, just for fun, which is the knave?” And Bobby, without a
check, selected the correct cardboard. “Again, gentlemen, if you please,
it will bring my hand into practice; shall we say half a crown? Thanks!”
and again, with the accuracy of a truffle dog, Bobby discovered the card.
Again and again was this farce perpetrated, till Bobby’s winnings
amounted to £4, and in his generosity he seemed loth to take advantage of
such a greenhorn.
George meanwhile had caught the infection and bet and won as the stakes
were made higher.
“Five pounds for once, gentlemen? I think I’ve earned my revenge,”
pleaded Jerry, and fickle Fortune as if of the same opinion, decided in
his favour.
Any one but the veriest tyro would have deemed this a favourable
opportunity to stop, but George, as we have seen, had his own ideas of
honour; the fever, moreover, was upon him, and, producing the contents of
his own pocket, he again backed his opinion.
Gone in a twinkling, he next turned to Bobby, and the lad at once
proceeded to supply him with his cash. Meanwhile their original
acquaintance whispered imploringly to George to have done with it, but he
might as well have spoken to the winds. “D— it, man, if I’m cleaned out
of ready money I’ve still my ring and sleeve links; go on, sir,” he
continued to Jerry. “I’ll bet my jewellery against a tenner.”
But fortune was still against our friends, and divested of his trinkets,
in his turn he appealed to his opponent.
“Come, sir, I gave you your revenge, now give me mine, and anything I
lose I’ll give you my cheque for.”
But Jerry was of a practical nature; cheques were occasionally stopped,
and officious detectives might come to hear of it, so he decided to
decline the tempting offer, but promised revenge on the morrow. The
first stranger meanwhile came to the rescue. “I know you’re a
gentleman,” he whispered, “and mayn’t like to lose those things, why not
offer the gent to redeem them to-morrow?”
The idea seemed a happy one, and the party dispersed, on the
understanding that at twelve the following day they should all meet at
the Pump in Leicester Square.
But our heroes were not yet done with casual acquaintances, as passing
along the Haymarket they were again accosted by a man. “Excuse me,
gentlemen,” was the abrupt introduction, “I saw you parting company just
now with two well-known sharpers; I’m Detective Bulger of the police, may
I ask if you’ve been robbed?”
And then the painful truth began to dawn upon the victims that two
officers in Her Majesty’s Service had been overreached at a game that a
Blue-coat boy would have jibbed at.
The sequel is briefly told. The next day the appointment was punctually
kept by all except Jerry, who, oddly enough, deputed another man to
explain that he was sending off an urgent telegram, and had requested him
(if the coast was clear) to conduct our friends to him.
Followed at a respectful distance by the detective, the jewellery was
duly redeemed; but just as Jerry was pocketing the money, a hand was laid
upon his shoulder, and he found himself in the clutches of Sergeant
Bulger.
George refused to prosecute; his money was however, restored to him, and
binding Bobby to secrecy, he thus escaped the chaff that would have
cleaved to him for life.
The “Kitchen” was situated in St. Martin’s Court, abutting on Castle
Street, now known as Charing Cross Road; adjoining it was a famous _à la
mode_ house kept by two brothers, each of whom could turn the scale at
thirty stone. It was explained by way of accounting for this
extraordinary freak of nature that, by never leaving the establishment
and inhaling the greasy fumes from night to morning, their pores were
constantly imbibing from a thousand sources the oleaginous vapours that
conduce to obesity; be that as it may, the entire front of an upper
chamber had to be removed to allow of the usual formalities of Christian
burial when one of the firm died, and it is doubtful if the place was not
afterwards demolished.
Here nightly were to be found actors since known to fame; journalists
such as Horace (Pony) Mayhew and his brother Gus, George Augustus
Sala—then writing to measure—and a sprinkling of golden calves with
theatrical proclivities. The refreshments, of course, left nothing to be
desired on the score of satisfying, and _à la mode_ gravy in pewter pots
stimulated many a jaded reveller during the small hours of the morning.
It was on our way to this refined hostelry that we on one occasion met
Polly Amherst, and the sequel was so absurd that I give the story special
prominence.
Polly was a delightful companion. Just down from Oxford, he was destined
to take up a fat family living in the neighbourhood of Sevenoaks, but
being seen one night in a bird’s eye tie amid the revels of Cremorne, and
the birds of the air having carried it to his bishop, it was pointed out
to the worthy fellow that free scope for his undoubted talent was
impossible in the Church, and so posterity was the loser of much pulpit
oratory that would doubtless have thrilled the present generation.
As we entered the “Kitchen” Jack Coney—a promoted scene-shifter lately
come into prominence by his marriage with Rose Burton—was retailing to
the assembled revellers the spot which had been kept secret to the last
moment where a big fight was to take place in the morning.
“Of course, I’ll go,” replied George Hay to someone’s inquiry.
“I’m too seedy,” continued Bobby, who had not spared the punch.
“I, too,” added Oliver.
“I should like to, but I daren’t,” chimed in Polly. And so a detachment
was added to the contingent that were piloted by the irrepressible Coney.
Bobby during the past night had, alas! not followed the paths of
sobriety, and so it came to pass that the blind agreed to lead the blind,
and Polly Amherst and Harry Turner (a genial comedian) agreed to escort
him to the Hummums.
Passing Hart’s Coffee House we, of course, “looked in,” and, sure enough,
there was Hastings and a dozen boon companions; but the night air had
been too much for many of us; we saw a dozen Marquises and only one boon
companion, so taking the wisest resolve we had taken that night, we bade
each other farewell on the steps of the Hummums, and proceeded to our
virtuous couches.
Arising late on the following afternoon, a circumstance occurred that
drove everything else out of my head, and to the elucidation of this
inexplicable coincidence are to be attributed the monotonous details I
have just described.
It was towards three on the following afternoon, when, having completed a
refreshing toilette, my left arm was entering my sleeve that I became
aware of a foreign substance that bulged to an abnormal extent the inner
pocket of my coat; proceeding to examine the cause with that
self-possession for which I was so justly conspicuous, my equanimity was
considerably tried by coming into contact with a watch; extracting it
carefully, I discovered that it was attached to a massive chain adorned
with numerous seals and lockets. Surprised, I continued my
investigations, my surprise turning to anxiety as a second watch (a
repeater) made its appearance. By this time thoroughly alarmed, I dived
again, and out came three or four rings and a purse stuffed full of
sovereigns. Fairly staggered, my _sang-froid_ left me, and reeling
towards the bed, I endeavoured to solve the mystery.
Had I in my cups robbed a jeweller’s? Had I picked somebody’s pocket?
Had I had a row, and after the fray put on my opponent’s coat? But every
argument failed to elucidate the mystery, and my thoughts wandered to
such an extent that in it all I saw a distinct judgment on my
back-sliding.
To make matters worse, I knew not where Amherst or Harry Turner resided,
and so resolved to have breakfast and await developments.
But breakfast under such circumstances was a sorry farce; every gulp of
tea appeared to choke me, and in every waiter who approached I recognised
a constable on the track of the burglar. Flesh and blood could not long
stand this strain, and my pent-up feelings received a still greater shock
by the waiter thrusting a card into my hand. “Ask him in,” I replied,
and Harry Turner, with a face a yard long, hurriedly shuffled towards me.
“An awful thing has occurred,” began the unhappy mummer, “and I’ve come
to you in the hope that you’ll be able to explain it. Look at this,” he
continued, as he proceeded to untie a bundle. “When I was putting on my
coat just now I found two watches, a cheque-book, a ring, and a packet of
papers. Can you recollect what we did? By Gad, I’m half disposed to go
and give myself up. One would get off lighter then, perhaps.”
Whilst we were discussing ways and means, a second card was brought to
me, and again the waiter was requested to “show him in,” and then Polly
Amherst came upon the scene, the ghost of his former self, pale and
haggard, but otherwise externally irreproachable as regards white tie and
High Church clerical attire. “Billy,” he began, “a terrible thing has
occurred, and I’ve come here in the hopes that you will be able to set my
mind at rest. Conceive my horror, when opening my eyes this afternoon,
to see at my bedside a watch, a pile of sovereigns, and a valuable ring.
What silly jokes did we indulge in last night, old man? ’Pon my word as
I came here I shuddered as I passed a policeman. The matter can’t rest
here. I’ve locked the accursed things in my portmanteau, and now what’s
to be done?”
But the consolation he received from his dismal companions in no way
tended to allay his anxiety. “We have neither of us the smallest
conception of how we became possessed of these things,” replied Turner,
“and it seems to me our only course is to walk round to Bow Street and
voluntarily give ourselves up.”
Our teeth had now begun to chatter, and, hoping against hope, we agreed
it would be best to await George Hay’s return, and act as he should
advise.
Three weary hours later, George Hay, Oliver Montagu, the irrepressible
Jack Coney, and Harry Ashley (afterwards of _Pink Dominoes_ fame),
returned from the fight, and it having been arranged that the three
latter should be permitted to depart before the culprits broke the news
to George, a magnum was called for by way of a stirrup cup.
“By the way, Polly,” remarked Montagu, “I may as well relieve you of my
gimcracks, and, by Gad, it’s as well we didn’t take them. Did you ever
see a rougher lot?” he added, turning to George.
And then a cloud rose from off the countenances of Polly, Harry Turner,
and myself; the magnum that had hitherto tasted like jalap appeared as
nectar to our lips, and we began to recollect that prior to leaving the
“Kitchen” our comrades had entrusted their valuables to us.
We never told our terrible experience.