This scene is, in the vocabulary of Greeks, termed; "acting the countryman."
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Were a case of sharping of this description tried before the tribunals of justice, one, or at most two culprits, would be brought forward; and yet is it not evident to every one, that, in robberies conducted American fashion, and particularly in those of the kind specified above, the duped are as guilty as the dupers? Would they not have taken advantage of the poor foolish countryman to victimise him? The sole reason which prevented them so doing, was the fact of their having met with one, who, with all his apparent stupidity, was more than a match for themselves.
If I were writing for the "habitués" of Paul Niquet and the frequenters of "Père la Rangaine"[D] I should make the Greek of the public-houses the hero of this work; but as I have every reason to believe, that most of my readers will never come in contact with this class of sharper, I shall only mention one or two of his best tricks, and then have done with him.
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We will suppose our hero to be dining at one of the "tables-d'hôte" outside the barriers, where you get your dinner at a shilling a head. In the course of the repast, the Greek, who, by-the-bye, seems a jovial sort of fellow, offers to make all sorts of bets with those around him,—bets of that equivocal nature in which the proposer is sure to win.
The Greek, however, makes these bets less with a view of gain, than to irritate the men who lose, and from whom he hopes later in the evening to derive some benefit.
At dessert he takes three plates and some tumblers, and affects to play a juggling trick with pellets of bread crumbs.
But his performances are so ridiculously "maladroit," that the spectators only laugh at him.
There is no deception, for, as they say, one sees the string which makes the puppet dance.