land, alas! the thirst for wealth is still unsatiated, unsatiable. Mammon is an uglier word than Fortune, but they are one and the same idol, and so blinded are their votaries, that it is a well-known fact that several hell-keepers, conscious of the advantages that they themselves enjoy by keeping the bank at their own houses, being aware as they must be, better than any one, of the constant pull of the game in their favour as long as they continue only to superintend and furnish the sinews for the struggle; in short, knowing that the bank must win-cannot yet resist the temptation of trying their fortune as players at other tables, and placing themselves on an equality of loss with the multitude of dupes from whose short-sighted avarice they draw their own resources. But the play-room at Crocky's is hardly the place to moralize, however much it may furnish materials for to-morrow's waking reflections; so let us see how the system works as the ivory representatives of hundreds circulate round the table. Who is that good-looking fellow, sweeping the dice into the box with his gloved hand, as in the full swing of success he prepares to call his fourth main? Six cool hundreds was he out, when Fortune smiled upon his endeavours, and, regardless of the empty account at Coutts's, the outstanding bills, and the mortgaged patrimony, he "potted it on," when he threw in his first main, as though what he calls "pluck," and his aunt "recklessness," were a negotiable commodity, and would serve to pay his way as well as lawful coin of the realm. Once has he dribbled deuces stealthily over the baize; once has he punted cinques gallantly on the board; once has eleven, mystic link with the magic seven, leapt triumphant from the box; and as he again prepares his skilful cast, the backers spread their accumulating counters where the word "in" points the way to fortune; whilst one pale youth, whose propensity for backing out each player but himself has in this instance cost him nearly the price of his commission, but who prides himself upon his immoveability of countenance and temperament, drawls out" Rather a good caster!" "Page, give me another hundred ;" and, with a fresh bowl and another relay of counters, works perseveringly on in his untoward course. But meanwhile the box rattles aloft. "Seven!" shouts the caster, and the green masks echo "The main is seven." "Make your game, gentlemen." Still the white glove is vibrating aloft, and the lynx eyes twinkle beneath the green shades of the attendants; one more rattle, and down comes the box with a violence that leaves a semicircular mark indented on the cloth. No seven is there, but an envious five grins at him from the dice. "A five to a seven, says the shade, as the caster spreads his store between the parallel lines in front of him. One voice is heard to say-" What are the odds?" A tyro he, but quickly to be instructed by the brief reply of "Three to two ;" and had he looked at his next neighbour he would have seen two red counters, signifying each one hundred pounds, laid quietly down to be converted into three by one successful cast: the wished-for five comes not, and still delayed is the dreaded seven. All the numerals seem to come up in turn but those on which hope and fear depend. How loud the clock ticks! it jars on the strung nerves of the players as they watch the dice with straining eyes. One turn of the wrist sends a die spinning across the table, which, stopped by the opposite edge, turns up a tray. Now for the tug of war. If there is one thing I pride myself on, it is dribbling a deuce," says the unmoved caster, in reply to the groom-porter's business-like observation of " tray landed," and laughingly he shakes the still imprisoned die in its cell. Holding the box horizontally, he waves it twice or thrice with a sweeping motion of his wrist, and gently impels the ivory messenger on its important errand. The dice pitches on its corner, rolls over, and lo! a fatal four stands confessed. "Seven out," says the green shade. Busily work the rakes to gather in the spoil. The pale youth having been scrupulously paid, gathers his winnings towards him, whilst the defeated caster, declining the courteous offer of " a back," rolls the box on to his nearest neighbour, veiling his chagrin under an affected smile. I had been so occupied in watching this scene as I stood behind the principal performer, identifying myself with his interests and triumphing in his success, that I never remarked Jack Raffleton, who, having taken a chair on the further side of the table, was now immersed in the chances and changes of the game. Judging by the multiplicity of counters before him, he was winning considerably; but nothing in Jack's handsome face would ever give an observer an idea of what was going on within. Winning or losing, he was coolness itself, and amongst other peculiarities of his temperament, he was never known by his most intimate friends to put himself in a passion. As he himself said, when, meeting him after a certain Derby, I condoled with him on the loss which I knew he had sustained of two thousand, "Yes," was Jack's answer, with his usual cheery laugh, "but, worse than that, I have lost my carriage and my luncheon; been losing my time looking for them, and now, if I can only lose my temper I shall have got rid of everything belonging to me, and start fresh, as an insolvent in a new line.' Poor Jack! he was a great friend of mine, and I must be excused if I cannot resist the temptation of relating another anecdote, exemplifying the way in which he could keep his temper under the most ruffling circumstances. Before he exchanged into the Guards, Jack was a subaltern in a very crack Hussar regiment: and, as may be supposed, was a dandy of the first water. Naturally of an affectionate and kind disposition, he was as fond of pets as any old maid that ever kept a parrot; and of all his favourites two tiny King Charles's spaniels bore the bell. He never walked out without them; they had a seat in his phaeton, and a bed on his writing-table; and it was a joke at mess that the only way to get a "rise" out of Jack was to abuse his long-eared darlings. One fine summer's day Jack was sauntering leisurely up the Highstreet with his little four-footed friends, as usual close behind him, when the odour of Midsummer meat from a butcher's shop proved too much temptation for Fan to resist; and, sneaking quietly away, she ensconced herself in company with a large piece of raw flesh right under the butcher's dresser. Out of the back shop rushed blue-sleeves in a fury, aggravated by the height of the temperature, and with one kick sent poor Fan flying across the street, to where her elaborately-dressed master was sauntering quietly along. He heard the piteous howl of his favourite, and saw the stalwart butcher fuming upon his doorstep; and one glance explained the whole transaction. But what did Jack? Rush across the street, and annihilate the miscreant who could so ruthlessly treat a dumb animal? No such thing. The highway had been watered, and was inch-deep in mud: Jack's boots were French polished, and fitted him like a glove: so he gingerly walked on to where a paved crossing enabled him to pass over unsoiled; and, marching down the street again at the same tranquil pace as before, halted immediately opposite the butcher, who was still nursing his wrath in his own doorway. "I say, butcher," drawled out the dandy, "did you kick my dog? How could you do so? You are very ugly, and enough to frighten any animal to death without mauling it.' Such an address as this was not calculated to soothe irritation; and the butcher, a proper-built fellow of some fourteen stone, intimated his intention of treating the questioner (whose appearance he thoroughly despised) in the same manner that he had served his dumb favourite. "Oh, you will, will you? Butcher, can you fight?" said Jack, as he buttoned his coat systematically up to the throat; and, drawing on his gloves, stood carelessly in front of his antagonist. "Now, butcher, are you ready?" added the dandy, aggravating his address with a lisp put on for the occasion. To it went the man of marrow-bones with a will; and, being a stout active fellow, made sure that a few rounds would settle the whole business. And so it did; but not exactly as he anticipated. He had altogether mistaken his customer. Jack, a lathy lengthy man, far heavier than his antagonist had they both been brought into condition, was, besides this, one of the best amateurs in London; and as he kept peppering away with perfect good-humour at his adversary, it was evident that what was a mortal struggle to the butcher was merely a "breather" to the swell. After a few unsuccessful rallies, in which the Hussar did not receive a single scratch, a well-planted right-hander in the wind sent the yokel down upon the pavement; where he lay, apparently deaf to the call of time. Ere this a crowd had collected; and the remarks made were, as usual, highly complimentary to the winner. "Yes," said Jack, in reply to a scientific rat-catcher who was dilating on the issue of the fight" Yes; I wasted my time sadly upon his dial-plate. Had he been a baker instead of a butcher, I should have hit him in the bread-basket long ago." So much for Jack's coolness! And as he sat behind his pile of counters (and I saw that he had a sum far exceeding what I knew to be his yearly income, on the table in front of him, depending on the issue of the next main) I could not help regretting that all that nerve, judgment, coolness, and daring should be lavished on such a pursuit as Hazard. Many a good man has rued the hours wasted and the means squandered upon a cubic piece of ivory. Often had I been warned of the fascination of play-often had I been told that the allurements of the demon were irresistible, and that once having given way, once having fallen, there was no retreat; yet even as I looked I felt the spell stealing over me, the insidious poison was creeping into my veins, and almost ere I was aware I had seated myself at the table between my friend and a freshcoloured, good-humoured looking personage who was playing like fury, and prepared to take my first sip of that goblet whose brim sparkles with the keenest excitement-whose dregs, alas! too often drained, are remorse, infamy, it may be suicide. The heart beat and the hand trembled as I took my bowl with its modicum of counters. 66 'Young I was, and sore afraid ;" and a modest pony was all I ventured to call for on this, my first essay. The table was pretty full, and I contented myself until the box should come round to me with backing "in" or "out" as the whim seized me in the 66 66 smallest sums, enough, however, to decrease my store to nearly half its original amount; when my next neighbour, who, having called for fresh dice, and selected two with the utmost care only to throw "crabs," with a stifled execration and a pleasing smile rolled the box on to me. Feeling somewhat shy and very nervous I put £5 on the "in" and called seven. Up came a ten two or three more throws, and up came my ten again; apparently much to the satisfaction of Jack Raffleton and one other man, who had put on "cinques," which, as they said, I had landed for them." I did not quite understand it; but receiving my winnings with a good grace, allowed them to remain on the table, and again prepared to call "seven." Why was it that the "ins" on each side of the table were immediately filled up? Why was the disposition to back the caster so unerringly displayed? Could my verdancy have already peeped out? Could my generosity to the table" in having nothing to do with the odds on my previous throw have stamped me at once as a fresh hand, whose proverbial good luck would enable winners to add heap to heap, and losers to "ride home upon the young one?" I know not; but I could not help remarking the tendency, and, truth to tell, it served to encourage me wonderfully." Seven," I called lustily; and down it came a nick." Still did I leave my winnings untouched; and again I called the magic number-" Eleven's a nick," "Bravo!" "a capital caster!" and other laudatory mutterings are heard around. In short, ere I threw out with an unsuccessfullyattempted nine I had attained my thirteenth main, to the discomfiture of the bank and the satisfaction of several lords and gentlemen who had speculated on my success. Jack Raffleton won largely; my freshcoloured friend enormously; and I myself got up a richer man by £350 in crisp bank-notes than I had sat down. Little did I think how spoonily I had managed my good fortune. I was quite satisfied with my success, and did not disturb myself with the reflection that had my friend Jack, or almost any other man at the table, been indulged with such a run of luck as mine, he would have " broke the bank" to a certainty, and walked off with some three or four thousand pounds as his own share of the spoil. Up I got, and there was at the same time a general move from the table. Polished attendants offered me every sort of grateful compound to drink, but I felt neither hunger nor thirst; and as I walked home in the cool air of a summer's morning (beautiful even in Piccadilly!), and smoked my cigar, in the full flush of triumph, I could not help feeling that I had turned over a fresh page in the book, and, like the pleasure-palled despot of the east, I had discovered a new source of happiness. Stay-happiness it could hardly be called. It was excitement-boiling, thrilling excitement. But as I looked on the dappled sky above me, and felt the balmy air of morning breathe upon my cheeks, a purer train of thoughts stole over me; and I felt that the life I was then leading could hardly be called a happy one. Gradually and insensibly long-past scenes came back. I thought of my merry childhood and my mother's care, never to be replaced in after-life; and even then a true friend at my side might have turned me from the career I was pursuing. But no, Jack's merry face, as he rattled by me in a Hansom cab on his way home to dress for a field-day (sleep, I believe, he never indulged in) broke up my reveries, and I laid my head on my pillow, half-pleased, half remorseful at my evening's amusement; and thus ended my first night at Crocky's. VOLTIGEUR v. THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. BY THE DRUID. The Turf's Own Regulars all seem uncommon blithe and gay; On the tongues of all, from cardmen to the son of royal Guelph (1), Some ten lengths first, and well nigh burst the heart of Canezou; Then anxious waits and ruminates on speed of other days. The second bell is ringing; nigh the rails the crowd are crushing; Up Grand Stand stairs the bulls and bears of Turf Exchange are rushing. "Five to one upon The Dutchman!" is heard amid the hum Of scores of voices that proclaim the welcome sound "They come !" First, Fobert leads his favourite, while close upon his rear A cutaway enfolds his form, a tartan tie his throat. "Make way, my friend! The Dutchman! the Dutchman, gentlemen! Volti.'s no use; he'll cook his goose, 'tis a hundred to a hen. He'll get licked, Jemmy!" "You be hanged! he'll just win in a trot; On Bobby Hill and Voltigeur, as guard of honour, waits To tempt him, though the Nobbler-Kings of Europe should combine, Nat puts him in a canter-why, e'en a child could know him— |