But, indeed, you may spend hours in reading the traps for the unwary set by the person who occupies the room, and who is known to his private friends as Con Stavely. He is a sharp cunning rogue indeed, and has as many aliases as Argus had eyes; and the mine in which he digs is rich enough, in all conscience, to make the fortunes of a thousand such rogues as he. Gulls and dupes abound, and it has become part of our social system that, turn which way you will, spiders may be seen lying in wait for flies.
Some of Con Staveley's systems are simplicity itself. It was only last week that, in the innocence of his heart, he was explaining to an intimate friend the machinery of one which seldom failed to bring grist to his mill.
"It is very easy," said Con. "Here, now; the Northumberland Plate is going to be run for. You advertise, a fortnight or three weeks beforehand, that you will send the winner for twelve stamps, and a promise of five per cent. on their winnings. Throw in something strong when you write the advertisement. Say you will forfeit a thousand pounds if the horse you send doesn't win, or that you will eat the horse, or something of that sort. Plenty of fools'll believe you. You'll get lots of answers, and any number of stamps--more than enough to pay for your advertisements six times over. Well, then, you make a list of the horses that are likely to start for the Plate. You've only got to know the ropes to do this easily. There won't be many starters; about ten or a dozen, probably. Here is your list:--The Boy. The Dwarf. Christopher Sly. Mineral. Taraban. Lord Hawthorne. Falkland. Cap-à-pie. Myosotis. Miss Hervine. You get some circulars printed, leaving a space to write in the name of the horse."
"But why," asked Con's friend, "send answers at all? Why not stick to the stamps and have done with it?"
Con Stavely winked, thrust his tongue into his cheek, put a wing to his nose, and in other delicate ways asserted the superiority of his judgment to that of his friend.
"My very worthy and particular," he replied oracularly, "you've got a thing or two to learn before you're quite awake. Why? Because it pays better the other way. To each one of your subscribers you send a circular, with the name of one of the horses from your list, so that if you get three hundred subscribers, and divide the list fairly, there will be thirty subs to every horse. Of course the circular says that it is impossible for the horse to lose; that the stable are backing it heavily, and all that sort of thing. Well, one of the horses wins--Taraban, Christopher Sly, or any other--it doesn't matter which. Then you look out the names of the subs to whom you sent the winning horse, and you send them congratulatory letters--you hope they have won a pot, and that they will send you a percentage on their winnings; you've got a rare good tip for the next big race, which you will be glad to send to them. You'll get something from them, depend upon it, if it's only half-a-crown's worth of stamps. A fellow sent me a fiver only last week, and I've got plenty of post-office orders for sovs. That's the reason why, my worthy particular. Because it pays better, and because" (tapping his nose with his finger knowingly) "honesty's the best policy."
If all Con Stavely's systems are as simple as this one, gulls must abound, indeed, to make them profitable.
As Con Stavely sits and smokes and works on this summer afternoon, he hears an uncertain foot upon the stairs.
"It's the old un," he says.
The reference to the "old un," which to uninstructed ears might have borne a diabolical signification, applies to an old man--older than his years, which may be about fifty--who presently enters the room. An old man, with restless eyes that seek the ground, as if fearful of looking any one in the face; a very shabby, sad, and worn old man. All his clothes are too large for him, and are kept together by a very few buttons and a great many pins.