Page:All the Year Round - Series 2 - Volume 1.djvu/225

Charles Dickens] from any scruples detaining me, I entered with something of the severe, stern, purpose with which a policeman enters a low den of thieves and looks round searchingly to see that no villany is hatching. He is not contaminated by that association, for he is doing his duty. So do I feel among them, but not of them—with those croupiers, the Fagings, Sikeses, and Dodgers of the place, pursuing genteelly what is no better than "cracking a crib." I would the Fagins and others, one half less penal servitude than these rascals. . .. Certainly it is the most curious spectacle, far above any human interest. And such wretched, little, mean, low glimpses. The woman who pillages a wretched florin and goes through a perfect row, is insulted by the croupiers, is hustled by the servants—all to get a miserable one-and-eight-pence! A gold piece drops on the ground; the owner will not hear of any one stooping to look for it, and sternly keeps the space clear about it till the servant comes with a light. That fellow, too, would never succeed in finding it; it would travel up his sleeve, unless there was an honourable understanding of a deduction for his service of at least ten per cent. These familiars thrive and fatten on the gamblers; spoils pour in on them, in every conceivable way. One encumbers the successful gambler with obtrusive help about his hat—a florin; another has a bag of old gloves, which he pins down round the table, when the play begins. These dirty symbols keep places—a service to be remunerated with florins. I look at the man on thee high stool behind, who is the detective, and whose duty it is to watch and measure and pay, and, above all, support his understrappers with the air of a sort of disinterested bystander, who must interfere, at the last moment, with his impartial testimony. This is rather too good. What a set!—so harmonious and consistent in all their associations! "Gang " is the ruder but more appropriate word. Not one of them, I can see, likes me; they look at me with distrust; they know what I think of them, how I could expose them, and strip them of some of their gains, if I chose. The "black" man, as I call him, who is something between a "betting man" and an upper turnkey, overheard me directing the young girl how to win, and the look of distrust and dislike he gave me was indescribable. He would like to have called up two of his bullies in the gold lace, to have hustled me out—if he dared. . .. At this moment they were beside me, and he is staring impudently into their faces—that gross stare which only a Frenchman can give.

"Oh, Mr. Austen! You will help me, as you did the other night!"

I looked a little grave. "That was under protest," I said; "and for one night only, as they say of the actors."

"But it is not that; it is not for the money; it is for your miraculous system. It is like magic."

"Give me your money," I said, "and we will see. But you will understand—I merely do this as an experiment, to oblige a young lady."

The usual luck followed. I waited till the colour had turned up four times in succession, and then laid on the opposite. We won—only a few francs—but quite sufficient for her. I cannot say how elated I was at this control of mere chance.

Ten o'clock.—O shame, humiliation! that I should have been such a dupe and fool! I could beat, lash myself. But I must write—write, if only to justify myself. That man did it on purpose, I know he did; and that I should have trusted him! . .. After they had gone, I somehow felt myself in great spirits—a sort of elation and a sense of happiness I have not known for a long time. Grainger comes up. I think he had been drinking a little.

"Every one," he says, "is talking of your great luck. There is no system going like yours."

"It is only the system of good sense, Grainger," I say, in my banal stupidity.

"Then why not help me," he went on, "as you helped that young girl?"

"Because," I said; "that is a different matter. You are bound to me not to play."

"Well, leave me out of the business; but I think you are bound to do something for yourself and your family. A man that wants a hundred pounds, and could turn it by an hour's work, is sacrificing a little too much to his principles; it's selfish, my friend."

He said no more, but—shall I own it?—those vile words began to ring in my ear like a chime—"selfish! selfish!"—so it seemed. A dazzling prospect seemed to rush in on me. All our little debts, overdue—baker and butcher, the clothes for the children, for which my poor pet had to go, with humiliation, to that coarse Wilcox, "to beg for a little time." Selfish! It was so—to expose my darling to that! I might come home, not rich—no, I did not want a hundred pounds, or two