“This, gentlemen, is my accusation. I charge Mr. Biscoe with being a card-sharper and a cheat. To-morrow I’ll lay my charge before the Committee; meanwhile, I retire and will ask you, Hay, to act as my representative.”
The Rapparee meanwhile had been in whispered conversation with his friend, and on the Colonel’s departure, addressed himself to Hay.
“Oi presume, surr, your principal will meet my man unless he’s a coward, and we shall be pleased to let him fix his own day, either before or afther his complaint to the Committee.”
“This is hardly the time, sir, to enter into such arrangements,” replied Hay, courteously; “but I vouch for Colonel George doing what is right and honourable.”
But one of the younger members seemed inclined to treat the matter as a joke, and turning towards the Rapparee, remarked, “But, surely, sir, you must see that if it’s a duel you are hinting at, it would hardly be fair considering that Colonel George is considerably stouter than Mr. Biscoe. May we assume, sir, that you won’t object to a chalk mark down each side of the Colonel’s waistcoat, and a hit outside not to count?”
“Surr!” scowled the Rapparee.
“Please,” pleaded Hay; “this is not a joking matter, the honour of the Club and of every member who was present is at stake till the affair is cleared up. I appeal to you, gentlemen, one and all, to retire.”
Turning to the Rapparee, and raising his hat, he continued: “My name, sir, is Lieutenant Hay, and I’m stationed at the Tower.”
CHAPTER III.
MOTT’S AND CREMORNE.
London in the sixties possessed no music-halls as at present except the London Pavilion and a transpontine establishment unknown to the West End. This former had not long previously been transformed from a swimming bath into an undertaker’s shed, which in its turn gave place to the dingy hall which eventually made the fortune of a waiter from Scott’s. But such excitement (!) hardly met the requirements of progressive civilisation, which found an outlet in the Argyll, Cremorne, the Café Riche, Sally Sutherland’s, Kate Hamilton’s, Rose Young’s, and Mott’s. It seems but yesterday that one was sipping champagne at Boxall’s stall in the Café Riche (now a flower shop adjoining the Criterion) waiting for young Broome the pugilist, who was to pilot one in safety to “the big fight between King and Heenan.” In those halcyon days cafés remained open all night, and three a.m. was the hour appointed for our start for London Bridge. What splendid aid was then given legitimate sport by the authorities, as driving through rows of police across London Bridge one reached the terminus in comfort by simply displaying one’s ticket. With a pork pie in one pocket, and a handkerchief in another, one’s peace of mind was delightful, and hands in every pocket—aye, and knives to cut one out if necessary—were accepted only as a portion of a novel and delightful excitement.