“If we can but get the shares to sell for—say twenty thousand, the speculation will not pay badly. You see, Guillemard, these crafty islanders—these denizens of ‘perfide Albion’—their pockets are not impregnable when you assault them judiciously. Five thousand pounds from one man is not such a bad morning’s work!”
“Thrue for you, me boy!” exclaimed the Irishman; “by the powers, a few more such mornings’ work will make men of us, if it please providence to keep us out of jail so long; but it’s a dangerous game your playing. Sure now there’s jist five of us here present—why wouldn’t we take a thousand a-piece, and make ourselves scarce without any more ado? I’m content for one, bedad.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Terence,” was the reply: “for two very good reasons: one being, that if you remain quiet and follow my lead, I will enable you to bolt—if it come to bolting—with £10,000 instead of one; and the other, that Mr. Crane’s cheque is very safely buttoned up in my pocket, to be applied as I think best; and any man who attempts to take it from me will become practically acquainted with the merits of this ingenious little instrument,” and as he spoke he drew from his breastpocket a small, beautifully-finished revolving pistol, whereupon the individual termed Nugget interposed by observing—
“Nonsense, D’Almayne, put that thing away: we’re not in New Orleans, man; and the report of that would blow our schemes to the devil long before the bullet had penetrated O’Brien’s thick skull. But really there is nothing to disagree about that I can see: it’s quite clear, gentlemen, that D’Almayne knows perfectly well what he’s doing, and that our interests could not be in better hands. We meet again on Friday. D’Almayne, you’ll see me to-night in J———— Street; and now that we’re in funds again, Ratrapski will be as good as a fortune to us: a man does not break the bank twice.” Then, nodding familiarly to the others, Mr. Bonus Nugget resumed his usual “City” look (worth five hundred a-year to him at the most moderate computation), and departed.
“Terence, never look sulky, man; I meant no harm; what I said was as much for your good as my own,” began D’Almayne, in a conciliatory tone. “Come, I want you and Guillemard to dine at Blackwall, to meet an unfledged lordling, to whom I’ll allow you to sell a horse, if you like; and you may do a little bit of ‘turf’ business too, if he’ll bite; only it must be done in a quiet, gentlemanly way mind, because I’ve ulterior views in regard to my young friend: he has a taste for the club in J———— Street—you understand?”
“I believe ye, me boy! an it’s a fine child ye are intirely; and the way ye’ve cut yer wisdom teeth is a credit to yer blessed mother—always supposing ye ever possessed such a respectible relative,” was the Hibernian’s reply.
“By the way, if you’re really going in for the horse business,” resumed D’Almayne, meditatively, “you may as well do the thing properly. Get a flash trap, you know, and drive us down; and—who’s that sporting-looking young fellow you had packing you at Epsom—dark curly hair, and grey hawk’s eyes?”
“Oh, Phil Tirrett, the great Yorkshire breeder’s son; he is his father’s London agent, and a very promising young—”
“Scoundrel,” interposed D’Almayne, “I read it in his face. However, you’ll want somebody to back up your lies, and he’ll pass with such green boys as we shall have to-day; so bring him. Let me see—it’s now two o’clock—call for me at the Pandemonium at five; and, excuse me, but drop the Irish blackguard, and assume the foreign militaire as much as you conveniently can. Remember, you’re captain in the Austrian service, and I was in your regiment, your sub., for a year.”
“Bedad! it’s as well you reminded me of that same, for it had slipped my memory some way,” was the affable reply, as, arranging his auburn, not to say red, hair under his hat, the gallant Captain prepared to take himself off. Ere he did so, however, he chanced to cast his eyes on the Belgian capitalist, who was amusing his leisure moments by performing some intricate manœuvres with a pack of cards, an occupation which he interrupted by slapping Vondenthaler on the back with such force that a covey of cards flew out of the pack about the room.