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

by George W. M. Reynolds

  “Ten to five!” cried the groom-porter.

  “Put down three fifties,” said Dunstable; “and you have four fifties to three. That’s right. Now go on.”

  Egerton threw.

  “Five—trois, deuce—out!” cried the groom-porter.

  And the young man’s money was swept towards the bank in a moment.

  “Try a back, Egerton,” exclaimed Chichester.

  “Well—I don’t mind,” was the reply—for the waiter had just handed round goblets of the most delicious claret, and the lights began to dance somewhat confusedly before the young victim’s eyes. “I’ll set myself again in two hundred; and five’s the main.”

  “Five’s the main,” cried the groom-porter: “deuce, ace—out.”

  And away went the bank-notes to the rosewood case at the head of the table.

  Colonel Cholmondeley now took the box.

  “Will you set me a pony, Egerton?” he said.

  “I should not mind,” was the reply, given with a stammer and a blush; “but—to tell you the truth—I have no more money about me. If my cheque will do——”

  Dunstable nodded significantly to Crockford.

  “Oh! my dear sir,” said the old hell-keeper, rising from his seat and shuffling towards Egerton, whom he drew partially aside; “I means no offence, but if you vants monies, I shall be werry ’appy to lend you a thousand or two, I’m sure.”

  “Take a thousand, Egerton,” whispered Lord Dunstable. “You’ll have better luck, perhaps, with old Crockey’s money—there’s a spell about it.”

  “I—I,” hesitated the young man for a moment as the thought of his previous losses flashed to his mind, even amidst the dazzling influence of Crockford’s club and his aristocratic acquaintances. “I——”

  “Glass of claret, sir?” said the waiter, approaching him with a massive silver salver on which stood the crystal goblets of ruby wine.

  “Thank you;”—and Egerton quaffed the aromatic juice to drown the unpleasant ideas which had just intruded themselves upon him: then, as he replaced the glass upon the salver, he said, “Well, give me a thousand—and I’ll have another throw.”

  Sir Rupert Harborough took the box, set himself in ten pounds, and cried, “Nine’s the main.”

  He then threw.

  “Six to nine!” exclaimed the groom-porter.

  “Five to four in favour of the caster,” observed Colonel Cholmondeley.

  “I’ll bet the odds,” cried Egerton.

  “ ’Gainst the rules, sir,” said the pompous groom-porter: “you’re not a setter this time.”

  “Pooh, pooh!” cried Crockford, affecting a jocular chuckle. “The gentleman has lost—let the gentleman have a chance of recovering his-self. Take the hodds of the gentleman.”

  “Then I bet five hundred to four in favour of the caster,” said Egerton, now growing interested in the play as he began to understand it better.

  Sir Rupert threw a few times, and at last turned up six and three.

  “Nine—six, trois—out!” cried the groom-porter.

  Egerton now insisted upon taking the box again; and in a few minutes he had not a fraction left of the thousand pounds which he had borrowed.

  He turned away from the table, and sighed deeply.

  “Glass of claret, sir?” said the waiter, as composedly as if he were offering the wine through civility and not for the systematic purpose of washing away a remorse.

  Egerton greedily swallowed the contents of a goblet; and when he looked again towards the table, he was astounded to find another bundle of Bank notes thrust into his hand by the obliging Mr. Crockford, who said, in his blandest tones, “I think you vas vaiting, sir, for more monies.”

  “Take it—take it, old chap,” whispered Dunstable; “you can turn that second thousand into ten.”

  “Or into nothing—like the first,” murmured Egerton, with a sickly smile: but still he took the money.

  He then played rapidly—wildly—desperately,—drinking wine after each new loss, and inwardly cursing his unlucky stars.

  The second thousand pounds were soon gone; and Dunstable whispered to Crockford, “That’s enough for to-night. We must make him a member in a day or two—and then you’ll give me back the little I.O.U. you hold of mine.”

  “Certainly—certainly,” answered the hell-keeper “But mind you doesn’t fail to bring him again.”

  “Never fear,” returned Dunstable;—then turning towards his party, he said, aloud, “Well, I think it is pretty nearly time to be off.”

  “So do I, my lord——hic,” stammered Egerton, catching joyfully at the chance of an immediate escape from the place where fortunes were so speedily engulphed;—for tipsy as he now was again, the idea of his losses was uppermost in his mind.

  “Well, my lord—well, gentlemen,” said Crockford, bowing deferentially; “I wishes you all a wery good night—or rather morning. But perhaps your friend, my lord, would just give me his little I.O.U.——”

  “Oh! certainly, he will,” interrupted Dunstable. “Here, Egerton, my boy—give your I.O.U. for the two thousand.”

  “I’d ra-a-ther—hic—give my draft,” returned the young man.

  But, as his hand trembled and his visual faculties were duplicated for the time, he was ten minutes ere he could fill up a printed cheque in a proper manner.

  The business was, however, accomplished at last, and the party withdrew, amidst the bows of decoy-ducks, croupiers, waiters, groom-porters, door-porters, and all the menials of the establishment.

  * * *

  William Crockford was the founder of the Club which so long bore his name, and which was only broken up a short time ago.

  He began life as a fishmonger; and when he closed his shop of an evening, was accustomed to repair to some of the West End hells, where he staked the earnings of the day. Naturally of a shrewd and far-seeing disposition, he was well qualified to make those calculations which taught him the precise chances of the hazard-table; and a lucky bet upon the St. Leger suddenly helped him to a considerable sum of ready money, with which he was enabled to extend his ventures at the gaming-house.

  In due time he gave up the fish-shop, and joined some hellites in partnership at the West End. Fortune continued to favour him; and he was at length in a condition to open No. 50, St. James’s Street, as a Club.

  The moment the establishment was ready for the a reception of members, announcements of the design were made in the proper quarters; and it was advertised that all persons belonging to other Clubs were eligible to have their names enrolled without ballot as members of the St. James’s. The scheme succeeded beyond even the most sanguine hopes of Crockford himself; and hundreds of peers, nobles, and gentlemen, who were fond of play, but who dared not frequent the common gaming-houses, gladly became supporters and patrons of the new Club.

  In the course of a short time No. 51 was added to the establishment; and No. 52 was subsequently annexed. The rules and regulations were made more stringent, because several notorious black-legs had obtained admission; but, until the very last, any member was permitted to introduce a stranger for one evening only, with the understanding that such visitor should be balloted for in due course. The entrance-fee was fixed at twenty guineas a year; and an annual payment of ten guineas was required from every member.

  The three houses, thrown into one, were soon found to be too small for the accommodation of the members: they were accordingly pulled down, and the present magnificent building was erected on their site. It is impossible to say how much money was expended upon this princely structure; but we can assert upon undoubted authority that the internal decorations alone cost ninety-four thousand pounds!

  The real nature of this most scandalous and abominable establishment soon transpired. Hundreds of you
ng men, who entered upon life with fortune and every brilliant prospect to cheer them, were immolated upon the infernal altar of that aristocratic pandemonium. Many of them committed suicide:—others perpetrated forgeries, to obtain the means of endeavouring to regain what they had lost, and ended their days upon the scaffold;—and not a few became decoy-ducks and bonnets in the service of the Arch-demon himself. Even noblemen of high rank did not hesitate to fill these ignominious offices; and for every flat whom they took to the house, they received a recompense proportionate to the spoil that was obtained. To keep up appearances with their fellow members, these ruined lacqueys of the great hellite actually paid their subscriptions with the funds which he furnished them for the purpose.

  So infamous became the reputation of Crockford’s, that it was deemed necessary to devise means to place the establishment apparently upon the same footing with other Clubs. A committee of noblemen and gentlemen (what precious noblemen and gentlemen, good reader!) was formed to administer the affairs of the institution; but this proceeding was a mere blind. The Committee’s jurisdiction extended only to the laws affecting the introduction of new members, the expulsion of unruly ones, and the choice of the wines laid in for the use of the Club. The French Hazard Bank and all matters relating to the gambling-rooms were under the sole control of Crockford, who reaped enormous advantages from that position.

  Thus was it that a vulgar and illiterate man—a professed gambler—a wretch who lived upon the ruin of the inexperienced and unwary, as well as on the vices of the hoary sinner,—thus was he enabled to make noble lords and high-born gentlemen his vile tools, and thrust them forward as the ostensible managers of a damnable institution, the infamous profit of which went into his own purse.[1]

  [1] So far back as 1824, The Times newspaper thus directed attention to the atrocious nature of Crockford’s Club,—

  “ ‘Fishmongers’ Hall,’ or the Crock-odile Mart for gudgeons, flat-fish, and pigeons (which additional title that ‘Hell’ has acquired from the nature of its ‘dealings’) has recently closed for the season. The opening and closing of this wholesale place of plunder and robbery, are events which have assumed a degree of importance not on account of the two or three unprincipled knaves to whom it belongs, and who are collecting by it vast fortunes incalculably fast, but for the rank, character, and fortunes of the many who are weak enough to be inveigled and fleeced there. The profits for the last season, over and above expenses, which cannot be less than £100 a day, are stated to be full £150,000. It is wholly impossible, however, to come at the exact sum, unless we could get a peep at the Black Ledger of accounts of each day’s gain at this Pandemonium, which, though, of course omits to name of whom, as that might prove awkward, if at any time the book fell into other hands. A few statements from the sufferers themselves would be worth a thousand speculative opinions on the subject, however they might be near the fact, and they would be rendering themselves, and others, a vital benefit were they to make them. Yet some idea can be formed of what has been sacked, by the simple fact that one thousand pounds was given at the close of the season to be divided among the waiters alone, besides the Guy Fawkes of the place, a head servant, having half that sum presented to him last January for a New Year’s gift. A visitor informed me, that one night there was such immense play, he was convinced a million of money was, to use a tradesman’s phrase, turned on that occasion. This sum, thrown over six hours’ play of sixty events per hour, 369 events for the night, will give an average stake of £2777 odd to each event. This will not appear very large when it is considered that £10,000 or more were occasionally down upon single events, belonging to many persons of great fortunes.

  “Allowing only one such stake to fall upon the points of the game in favour of the bank per hour, full £16,663 were thus sacrificed; half of which, at least, was hard cash from the pockets of the players, exclusively of what they lost besides.

  “Now that there is a little cessation to the satanic work, the frequenters to this den of robbers would do well to make a few common reflections;—that it is their money alone which pays the rent and superb embellishments of the house—the good feeding and the fashionable clothing in which are disguised the knaves about it—the refreshments and wine with which they are regaled, and which are served with no sparing hand, in order to bewilder the senses to prevent from being seen what may be going forward, but which will not be at their service, they may rest well assured, longer than they have money to be plucked of; and above all, it is for the most part their money, of which are composed the enormous fortunes the two or three keepers have amassed, and which will increase them prodigiously while they are still blind enough to go. To endeavour to gain back any part of the lost money, fortunes will be further wasted in the futile attempt, as the same nefarious and diabolical practices by which the first sums were raised, are still pursued to multiply them. One of these ‘Hellites’ commenced his career by pandering to the fatal and uncontrollable appetites for gambling of far humbler game than he is now hunting down, whose losses and ruin have enabled him to bedeck this place with every intoxicating fascination and incitement, and to throw out a bait of a large sum of money, well hooked, to catch the largest fortunes, which are as sure to be netted as the smaller ones were. Sum up the amount of your losses, my lords and gentlemen, when, if you are still sceptical, you must be convinced of these things. Those noblemen and gentlemen, just springing into life and large property, should be ever watchful of themselves, as there are two or three persons of some rank, who themselves have been ruined by similar means, and now condescend to become ‘Procurers’ to this foul establishment, kept by a ‘ci-devant’ fishmonger’s man, and who are rewarded for their services in the ratio of the losses sustained by the victims whom they allure to it.

  “They wish to give the place the character of a subscription club, pretending that none are admitted but those whose names are first submitted for approval to a committee, and then are balloted for. All this is false. In the first place, the members of different clubs at once are considered ‘eligible;’ and in the next, all persons are readily admitted who are ‘well’ introduced, have money to lose, and whose forbearance under losses can be safely relied upon. Let the visitors pay a subscription—let them call themselves a club, or whatever they choose—still the house having a bank put down from day to day by the same persons to be played against, and which has points of the games in its favour, is nothing but a common gaming-house, and indictable as such by the statutes; and in the eye of the law, the visitors are ‘rogues and vagabonds.’ Were it otherwise—why don’t the members of this club be seen at the large plate-glass windows of the bow front, as well as at the windows of reputable club-houses? No one is ever there but the creatures of the ‘hell,’ dressed out and bedizened with gold ornaments (most probably formerly belonging to unhappy and ruined players), to show off at them, and who look like so many jackdaws in borrowed plumes; the players, ashamed of being seen by the passers by, sneak in and out like cats who have burnt their tails. Some of the members of the different clubs will soon begin to display the real character of this infernal place—those who will ultimately be found to forsake their respectable club-houses, and merge into impoverished and undone frequenters to this ‘hell.’ ”

  CHAPTER CCXLII.

  THE AUNT.

  Albert Egerton now became the constant companion of the fashionable acquaintances whom he had accidentally picked up—or rather, who had cunningly picked up him.

  He dined with them at Long’s;—he formed with them parties to eat fish at Greenwich and Blackwall;—he became a member of Crockford’s; and every day he lost considerable sums to them in one shape of gambling or another.

  They had ascertained that he was possessed, on coming of age a few weeks previously, of the handsome fortune of sixty thousand pounds; and they determined to appropriate the best portion of it to their own uses.

  The Honourabl
e Colonel Cholmondeley most obligingly acted as his Mentor in the choice of magnificent furnished apartments in Stratton Street;—Lord Dunstable was kind enough to purchase two thorough-breds for him, the price being only eight hundred guineas—a little transaction by which his lordship quietly pocketed three hundred as his own commission;—Mr. Chichester thought it no trouble to select a rare assortment of wines at one of the most fashionable merchants of the West End, and actually carried his good-nature so far as to see them carefully stowed away in the young dupe’s cellar;—and Sir Rupert Harborough generously surrendered to him his cast-off mistress.

  The four friends also conceived so violent an attachment towards Mr. Egerton, that they never lost sight of him. They managed matters so well that he had no time for compunctious reflections; for they invariably made him drunk ere they took him home to his bed; and when he awoke in the morning, the obliging Mr. Chichester was sure to be already there to give him sherry and soda-water.

  Then Harborough would drop in to breakfast; and while Egerton was performing the duties of the toilette, Dunstable and Cholmondeley were sure to make their appearance.

  Perhaps Egerton would complain of headach.

  “Don’t talk of headach, my dear fellow,” Lord Dunstable exclaimed: “you were quite sober last night in comparison with me. My losses were terrific! A thousand to Cholmondeley—fifteen hundred to Chichester—and double as much to Harborough.”

  “It is very strange that I seldom win any thing,” observed Egerton on one of these occasions: “and yet we can’t all lose. Some one must be the gainer.”

  Every one has his turn, my dear boy,” cried Harborough. “But what shall we do to-day? Any thing going on at Tattersall’s, Colonel?”

  “Nothing particular,” was the reply, lazily delivered. “Suppose we have some claret and cigars for an hour or two, and then play a rub of billiards till dinner-time. Of course we all dine together this evening.”