The two Conspirators— The Destitute state of the Finances—Swindle concocted—A polite Speech—The golden Harvest.
It is a threadbare saying, but a very true one, that nothing succeeds like success. Be the money made in questionable ways, such as by a little piracy in Chinese waters, selling guns never intended to shoot to North American Indians, or by a quack medicine, which professes to cure all diseases humanity is heir to, the man himself, the millionaire, will be glorified. As in America, so in the mother country, the money-bags cover a multitude of sins. It is pitiable, and does not give one a high impression of the multitude's brains, that the most glaring imposition, if thoroughly well advertised and persisted in, is bound to yield large profits.
It may not have been overlooked, although not noticed much in the newspapers, but the most satirical thing done in the present century of the Christian era has been the erection of an asylum for imbeciles by a gentleman who shall be, for obvious reasons, nameless. The act speaks volumes, and ought to be worth a cartoon by Tenniel as a lesson for thousands. The donor has been behind the scenes, and knows our little weaknesses and is ashamed of us! After putting away all the money he cares about, he devotes the surplus to the more benighted and helpless of his immense clientele. A statue ought to be erected to such a man; his head has evidently been fitted to his shoulders in a correct and proper manner. Early in life he found out the immense advantage of advertising, and also the gullibility of a vast majority of the earth. There are other men, no doubt, just as sharp as our asylum friend, who know quite as well how to reap considerable profit from this knowledge, and the Fifteen Postage-stamp Puzzle is a case in point.
It was a miserable room of one of those dilapidated inns near the Strand that the stamp project was hatched. Two men, shabbily dressed, were seated opposite each other at an old table, on which was a pewter-pot. They were both smoking clay pipes and drinking beer, and were in anything but a happy mood, to judge from their appearance and general aspect; and one might safely conclude they could not boast of having a superfluity of cash. I will now introduce these two men by the names of Bathurst and Fenn. Bathurst is a tall, dark-looking man, with a hooked nose and teeth remarkably white. His family got him into Her Majesty's Nary as a midshipman, and he was in a fair way to promotion when something occurred connected with a gambling transaction which caused him to resign. Fenn is also tall, but very fair. His parents gave him a good education, and he was getting a decent salary as a shop-walker in a Regent Street firm when a young lady mysteriously disappeared, and along with, her went furs and silks of much value. Suspicion, for which, no doubt, there were good grounds, pointed to Fenn as the young lady's confederate, and the place became too hot for him. These two men, who were in that uncertain age between 30 and 40, first met in a billiard-room, and immediately struck up an alliance offensive and defensive.
They have been living on their wits ever since, but things have evidently not been prospering with them latterly, as the following conversation will show:—
Fenn—What money have you got?
Bathurst (turning out his pockets)—There 5s. 3-1/2d.! What have you got?
Fenn (opening a purse)—There, only half-a-crown!
Bathurst—Well, it's no good having ideas if that's the extent of our capital!