CHAPTER XXIX

A QUIET INNOCENT EVENING

IT was a splendid autumnal evening; the sky was red, and the last rays of the setting sun danced merrily on the sea, lighting up the white-sailed pleasure boats, and drawing the accustomed comet-gazers out of their respective houses. The broad brick footway past the hotel resounded with light footsteps and light voices, and light laughs unchecked by the coming of the gas-light man, whose presence is generally so suggestive of retirement in other places. Presently the long line of sea-board glistened with lights, looking like a beautiful necklace of brilliants. Day and night then contended a while for the mastery, until a thin transparent gauze of mist began to descend, turning the scale in favour of night. Still the gay promenaders kept on their routes, the tribe of Spanish hats and floating dresses swelling rather than decreasing. Glow-worm-like young gentlemen in various habiliments presently joined them, whiffing and smoking as they walked, the ladies all declaring they liked the smell of cigars out of doors. Meanwhile our well-fed friends lolled and lounged in the balcony ere they returned to the enjoyment of the fruit and wine. The Major, who was full of sentiment and enthusiasm, pointed out the beauties of the sunset and the scene generally, expatiating on the melancholy feeling engendered by the declining year, while Gammon, perked up, declaring it was the very thing he liked, as it would enable him to begin cub-hunting almost immediately. And Jasper, who had some very unpleasant associations connected with the chase, looked with astonishment at a man who could anticipate pleasure from such rude bumpings and boundings. Little Curlew, too, began to give tongue initiatory of his parliamentary career; but O’Dicey presently recalled them to their allegiance at the table, now decorated with a splendid dessert and a magnum of Claret. A thin water-biscuit being voted a much better accompaniment to wine than fruit, the pine and grapes and peaches were discarded, while the ruby wine circulated briskly in the large thin glasses with which the table was plentifully supplied.

“Very good,” observed Mr. Wanless, smacking his lips as, after draining his glass, he sat in judgment on the last mouthful. “Very good,” repeated he, replacing the glass on the table.

“It is,” assented the Major, who had discussed his wine more leisurely.

And that being the general opinion, Mr. O’Dicey presently filled again on a liberal heel-tap, and sent the wine out on a second excursion. Twice round, with liberal helpings, makes a good hole in an inn Magnum; and when the three-quarters-emptied jug again stopped before our host, he just drew the bell-string, and pointing to it with his knife as the quick-sighted waiter entered, ordered candles and an anchovy toast.

The waiter presently returned with the wine and the candles, and the stuttering Major having begged for a reprieve of the twilight as the man was going to close in the shutters, they continued sitting in the mixed light of inside and out. The wine criticism being over, the guests presently accommodated themselves in their chairs, each man sitting or lolling according to his liking, and conversation became general, the Major leading off with regrets at the shortening days, while Captain Gammon was all for the turkey carpet, warm red curtains, with the horse-shoe table before the wood and coal fire. Summer or winter was then the thesis, each man offering his opinion and arguments on the point; in the midst of which the anchovy toast came, and O’Dicey gave another tap at the Claret jug with his dessert-knife.

“Ne—ne—no—more,” stuttered the Major, rising and rubbing his lips with his napkin as if he was done. “Ne—ne—no—more for me,” repeated he, with an emphasis.

“O fiddle!” replied O’Dicey. “Do as you like, you know, only sit still and let’s have a little quiet chat. De’ssay you’ve got no place to go to.”

“Why, ye—ye—yes I have. I was go—go—going half-price to the p—p—play.”

“Go to-morrow night,” replied O’Dicey, pulling him down by the coat-tails. “Go to-morrow night, and I’ll go with you.”

With which assurance the Major resumed his seat and helped himself to a little more wine. The others did not evince any disinclination to a sit; and though the wine was sourer than our friend Jasper was accustomed to, yet he took O’Dicey’s assurance that good claret never did anybody any harm, and helped himself in his turn. So the circulation proceeded amidst longer or shorter stops according to the inclination of the party before whom the bottle was. At length even Wanless began to pass it, whereupon O’Dicey rung the bell, observing that they would have coffee and a rubber at whist.

“Ne—ne—no c—c—cards,” interposed the Major, reddening; “ne—ne—no cards. I must inter—di—di—dict ca—ca—cards altogether.”

“Well, then, I’ll play you a game at chess,” replied the tractable O’Dicey.

“So be it,” assented the Major, equally affable.

Coffee presently came, and while it and the etceteras were circulating, the waiters cleared away the wine and dessert, and brought in the chess-board. As luck would have it, it contained a pack of cards, which Curlew immediately pocketed; and having seen the Major and O’Dicey apparently deeply absorbed in their game, he invited Mr. Wanless to écarté, at a convenient table placed immediately behind the Major.

“He’ll never notice us,” whispered Curlew, with a knowing chuck of the head. And forthwith the two sat down and began to play. Captain Gammon looking on and backing Wanless, who had very much the best of it, so much so, indeed, that Jasper gladly closed with Gammon’s offer to go halves in his bets. And the more Curlew frowned and growled, and bit his lips, the more luck seemed to go against him. The two games then proceeded noiselessly together.

At length the Major, by a most masterly manœuvre, completely overcame his antagonist at chess, and rising triumphantly from his chair, seemed to awake to the reality of there being other people in the room.

“Holloa!” exclaimed he, looking wildly round. “Holloa, cards! When did they come in?”

Just then Wanless again turned up the king, when Curlew dashed down his cards with an oath, declaring he was never so out of luck in his life.

“Well, my dear fellow, you would play,” said Wanless, consoling him.

“Would play?” growled Curlew, diving into his pocket for his purse. “I did it as much to oblige you as anything else.”

“Then oblige me by handing me over three sovs.,” observed Mr. Wanless, dryly.

“And me three,” added Gammon, holding out his hand for the money.

“What!” exclaimed the astonished Major, “have you been playing for mo—mo—money?”

“Money, ay, to be sure. What do you suppose we play for?” asked Wanless.

“Why, I thought we were to have a quiet, innocent evening. O’Dicey and I have been playing for love.”

“Ah, you look like a man for that sort of game,” retorted Gammon. “Suppose you take a turn now at the other thing.”

“Not I,” responded the Major, firmly.

While this was going on, little Curlew handed Gammon his three sovereigns, who, in dividing them with Jasper, proposed tossing up for the half one. This being agreed to, Gammon covered a sovereign in the palm of his hand, and Jasper crying heads it came heads, and our friend pocketed the two sovereigns with great gusto. “Not a bad evening’s work,” thought he. “A good dinner and a couple of sovereigns for eating it.”

The orthodox Major then looked at his watch as if he were going away, but little Curlew crying out for his revenge, Mr. Wanless gallantly took up the gauntlet, and changing seats prepared to give him it. The stakes were doubled and the betting increased: but luck went against the little man, and when at the end of half-an-hour he came to settle his losses, his smart gold-spangled blue purse seemed likely to be entirely denuded of its contents. Jasper still going halves with the Captain, came in for three more sovereigns as his share of the venture, and now felt as if he had got into the real unmistakeable way of making money. The exchange of sovereigns and nice crisp Bank of England notes is far more conducive to play than counters or I. O. U.’s., which may mean anything or nothing. So all parties thus became excited, and even the Major showed a disposition to nibble. He no longer “inter—di—di—dicted cards,” but hovered about the table like a moth flickering at a candle.

It was not, however, until after the waiters had come jingling in with jugs, tumblers, and spoons, and the black bottles of courage, that he took any decided part in the play, and then he appeared to do it more for the sake of conformity than from any desire to win money. Sherry-and-water, and brandy-and-water, and gin-and-water have a very stimulating influence; and O’Dicey, having plied our friend Jasper with a good tumbler of strong eau de vie, stopped the tell-tale clock on the mantelpiece, and the real business of the evening then commenced. Play rose rapidly. It is just as easy to say two as one, a thousand as a hundred, and the point was to carry our young friend quickly forward on the wings of excitement. Écarté was still the game, fresh players going in every now and then, O’Dicey amongst the number, who quickly turned the heretofore winning game against our friend, and was succeeded by Captain Gammon, who promised to retrieve their waning fortune if Jasper would back him on the mutual risk principle as before. Back him he did, but very ineffectually, for he lost three games in succession. Things began to look rather ominous.

The non-playing Major then, drawing Jasper quietly aside by the arm as if to replenish their glasses at the tray, volunteered his advice to go on the doubling principle till he got a turn of lu—lu—luck in his favour, assuring him that it “must co—co—come at last.” That he never knew a bold player lose, it was “o—o—only those who took fright at the fi—fi—figures and didn’t give themselves fair play who lo—lo—lost.” And though Jasper did not like the appearance of things, yet the Major was so kind and paternal that he could not help following his advice, and going boldly in, of course, made matters a great deal worse.

At length a waiter entered, bearing a savory grill and other provocatives of thirst, whereupon a truce was called for, and the parties gathered round the table eating and drinking, and talking about what they owed one another. The amount had become serious, so quickly do figures mount up, and Jasper and Gammon owed one party and another several hundred pounds. That, however, was nothing compared to what Mr. O’Dicey understood Jasper was equal to, and not expecting to have the pleasure of seeing him again, he determined to make the most of the present opportunity. The blood of all parties seemed to be roused, and even Jasper was anxious to retrieve his position. Cards, however, being slow for the concluding operation of fleecing, dice began to rattle, introduced by nobody knew who, and not objected to by anyone.

First little Curlew was seen shaking his elbow—fun, just for fun—and having satisfied his innocent curiosity as to whether he could throw doublets twice out of thrice or not, he cast away the box, when the great master himself took it up, and seating himself at the green-baize table, adjusted the moderateur lamp to his liking, and proceeded to back himself in. The well trained confederates then plied their respective parts; now joyous at winning, now stamping at losing, until after repeated rattle, rattle, rattle and bangs of the box on the table, Mr. O’Dicey thought he had drawn Jasper as fine as was prudent, and throwing down the box, swung carelessly away to the grill, telling our friend to take his seat and try his luck with the bones. But the prudent Major here interposed. “It was l—l—late. Did anybody know what o’clock it was?” producing his watch with well-feigned astonishment, and showing that it wanted twenty minutes to two.

“Rot the time!” exclaimed O’Dicey, helping himself to seltzer water on the faintest possible imputation of brandy. “Rot the time!”

But Captain Gammon, too, got nervous, and drawing our hero aside, whispered confidentially in his ear, that he didn’t like the looks of the thing, that luck was evidently against them, and they had better desist for the present and begin fresh another night.

“Well,” said our heated and confused hero, considering how they were to settle matters then.

“Come along! Come!” cried Mr. O’Dicey, peremptorily, returning to the table as he spoke, adding, “Who will hold the box?” putting in the dice and taking it up and rattling them.

But the spirit of the game seemed to have evaporated, and Mr. O’Dicey endeavoured to rally them by urging the losers never to give up then without waiting for a return of luck.

Captain Gammon pleaded satiety for the present. The winners would perhaps give them a chance another night.

“By all means!” exclaimed O’Dicey. “By all means! Only one doesn’t like to leave off a winner in one’s own house as it were. However, if that’s the wish of the party,” added he, looking around, “it’s not for me to press play—it’s not for me to press play,” added he, carelessly.

“O, I—I—I de—decidedly think,” stuttered the Major, “that we had b—b—better leave off now and start f—f—fresh another night.”

“Humph,” grunted Mr. Wanless. “That’s supposing we have all got the wherewithal to settle with now. I confess I haven’t.”

“O never mind the settling,” replied the off-hand O’Dicey. “Never mind the settling. We can just dot it down on a bit of paper, so that we may know how to begin again the next time. I’ve known men play for weeks and weeks without ever coming to the final penultimate cash.”

“Ah, but short reckonings make long friends,” interposed little Curlew, now leading on to the desired point.

“So they do,” assented Wanless; “but if anybody will tell me how I am to pay fourteen hundred and twenty pounds, with three half crowns,” producing his poor attenuated purse as he spoke, “I should be very much ’bleged to them.”

“Oh, I don’t mean money down,” rejoined Curlew; “I don’t mean money down, but a statement of how we stand.”

“Ah, to be sure, that’s most de-de-sirable,” observed the Major, “that’s most de-de-sirable; but as to p-p-paying, no man can p-p-pay what he owes over the c-co-counter, as it were.”

“Certainly not,” replied O’Dicey, “certainly not; credit is the soul of commerce, and why not of cards? Let us see then how each stands, and then we can talk about settling.”

Our friends then resolved themselves into a finance committee, and the process of “I O U-ing,” and “U O Me-ing,” commenced, and proceeded vigorously, each debtor being exceedingly complaisant to his creditor, assenting to whatever sum he claimed. And what with one claim and another, they brought our friends Gammon and Jasper in debtors to above four thousand pounds; so much to this man, so much to that, so much to a third; and as Captain Gammon, who was equally implicated, did not dispute any claim, our greatly disconcerted hero could not do so either. This, the last, account being at last adjusted, Mr. O’Dicey recapitulated the whole as against the partners, and taking a hasty retrospective view of affairs—the amount they had won—the sum Jasper was said to be good for—together with the insidious glances from beneath the suspicious Spanish hat—he determined to make the bold coup, and go for the whole. “May just as well ’stonish the governor with a cheque for four thousand as for two,” thought O’Dicey, conning the final proposition in his mind.

“Well now!” exclaimed he, diving his hands up to the hilts in his peg-top trowsers pockets; “Well now, let’s see, we are all in the same boat, winners of Mr. Goldspink; suppose, as he’s a stranger, and it’s not pleasant winning money of young men, that we all join in a double or quits toss, and that will include Gammon’s trifle too. It is not pleasant winning money of a young friend in that way,” muttered he, frowning, and shaking from side to side, as though the very idea was repugnant to him.

The Major said it wasn’t nice, and the other worthies apparently assenting, one cut with the cards was ultimately agreed upon. Jasper turned up the Queen of Hearts, which O’Dicey immediately capped with the King of Spades, and, of course, the debt was doubled.

“What luck!” “Did ever anybody see such luck!” “I think I never saw any thing like it in all my life!” exclaimed the gamblers, with well feigned astonishment, scattering themselves right and left in dismay; in the midst of which, Gammon drew Jasper aside by the arm, and whispered him to leave off, or he would inevitably ruin them both. Our fat friend then stood gaping, wondering how he was ever to get out of the dilemma.

And this well-intentioned effort to extricate him having unfortunately failed, the gamblers again gathered together to try and make the best settlement they could under this perverse aspect of affairs. Mr. Wanless, suddenly recollecting that he was engaged to join a shooting party in Worcestershire, and might not have the pleasure of meeting them again. “It was lucky,” he said, “if he hadn’t the cash, that he had the wherewithal for procuring it,” producing sundry bill stamps from his red leather pocket-book as he spoke; which Captain Gammon seeing, suggested that Mr. Goldspink and he might settle the same way.

“You seem to have plenty of paper there, Wanless; suppose you let my friend and I have the use of some of it.”

“With all my heart,” replied the obliging gambler; “with all my heart. Take whatever will suit your purpose,” handing over a whole sheaf of bill-stamps, two shilling ones, ten shilling ones, fifteen shilling ones, one pound ones.

“By Jove, but you must deal in large sums,” observed Captain Gammon, eyeing their amounts. “It will be nothing to a man of your means to take our little debt upon you as well.”

“Thank’ee, Gammon, thank’ee,” replied Wanless. “I find it’s about as much as I can do to pay my own way. Those stamps are meant to cover a multitude of mercantile transactions in all quarters of the globe.”

“Bless you, Wanless is one of the largest men in the city of London,” observed Mr. O’Dicey. “I’m dashed if I had half his means, but I’d have the longest string of horses at Newmarket, and hunt Leicestershire into the bargain.”

“Ah, would you, my friend,” replied Wanless. “I know where you’d very soon be if you did. But come,” continued he, sorting his stamps, “if I give you,” addressing Curlew, “an ‘on demand’ for your money, I ’spose that will do?”

“Oh, certainly,” replied Curlew; “certainly, an I O U is enough for me.”

“May as well make it a negotiable instrument,” observed the great merchant, getting the inkstand, and seating himself in a business-like way at the table. He then drew out a promissory-note in favour of Curlew, payable on demand at Messrs. Gingleton and Decimal’s bank, and presented Curlew therewith, who received it with as much gratitude as if it had been a real transaction.

Wanless then paid a similar compliment to the Major, amid the usual protestations of “No occasion, no occasion; any ti-ti-time will do for me.” And having thus settled his own obligations, he was appealed to by the innocent Gammon, who really knew nothing of such matters, to see if he could put Mr. Goldspink and himself in the way of settling too.

“Let me see,” said the man of metal, considering matters. “Let me see. You two gentlemen are partners, each owing the same amount. O, I should say, the shortest plan would be to draw on each other in favour of the parties to whom you owe the money.”

“Ah, but how to do it’s the question,” replied Gammon.

“O, I’ll soon show you how to do it,” replied Mr. Wanless. “Please to give me those stamps here,” appealing to O’Dicey, who was examining the collection with the greatest curiosity, as if he had never seen any thing of the sort before. Having got them back, and ascertained the sums, with the names of the banks at which they were to be made payable, Mr. Wanless selected appropriate paper, and proceeded to spread it out, preparatory to filling up.

“On demand, I ’spose,” said he, in a matter-of-course tone.

“On demand,” assented Captain Gammon, with a chuck of his chin. Whereupon the pen of the ready-writer passed glibly over the paper, and in about the time that it takes to pay a turnpike gate in the country, the onerous documents were ready for endorsement.

“There!” exclaimed the merchant, turning Captain Gammon’s bill on its face on the much-used blotting-sheet. “There, you’ve nothing to do but write the words ‘Accepted, Arthur Gammon,’ across here,” showing the place, “and the thing’s done.”

“Come along!” cried Gammon, taking the proffered pen, and writing as he was told.

“And you,” continued the director, now addressing Jasper, “do the same across here, only sign your own name instead of Captain Gammon’s, you know.” And with a shaky hand and sad misgivings, for his father had always charged him never to put his name to anything, our friend perfected the performance.

“There!” said Wanless, rising cheerfully, “the thing’s simple enough, you see.”

“Simple enough, when you know how,” assented Mr. O’Dicey, receiving the bills with a bow.

And with mutual observations that it was much better to square accounts as they went on, regrets that Mr. Wanless would not be able to get his revenge for the present, and hopes that they would soon meet again, and have another jolly evening, with thanks to O’Dicey for the one he had afforded them, the friends proceeded down the spacious staircase of the now noiseless hotel, and were let out into the misty morning air by a drowsy eye-rubbing porter. A division of the party then took place under the portico, some going to the east and some to the west, the surge of the sea accompanying each detachment, and alone breaking the silence of the sleep-wrapt town. And friend Jasper having parted with the last of his expensive companions, rang up the porter on the coffee-room side of the Corinthian Hotel, and retired to his couch with very uncomfortable feelings, which were not at all alleviated when he came to put that and that together on the morrow, and thought how much cooler his head would have been if he had taken a quiet tea with Miss Rosa, instead of dining with O’Dicey.