The party Lord Hastings had organised was a thoroughly representative one: Fred Granville, Peter Wilkinson, Ginger Durant, Fred Ellis—not yet blossomed into Howard de Walden—Bobby Shafto, The Baron, Young Broome (on duty), and a host of smaller fry; all united in one purpose, one aim—to enjoy life to its uttermost limit, and to lose not one fleeting moment of the night preceding the first summer meeting at Epsom. Booths in those wicked days were booths, not devoted as now to penny shots with pea rifles and the excitements permitted by our prudish legislature, but receptacles of every conceivable impropriety, to recount many of which would shock you, virtuous reader.
Here were gipsies of the old original form, who, if permitted to tell a modest girl her fortune, invariably wound up by informing her “she’d be the mother of six,” dancing booths, and tableaux vivants booths; booths where sparring and booths where drinking might be indulged in freely, booths where terrible melodramas were given, gambling booths, and thimble rig booths; roulette and three-card establishments, where every vice come down from the days of Noah might be indulged in without let or hindrance.
Leaving Limmer’s in the afternoon, and proceeding by easy stages, we reached the Downs shortly before eight. No time was lost in commencing business, and within an hour we were assisting at the erection of a theatre booth, whilst a “fragment” here and there was being rehearsed.
“And what does your Lordship think of that?” inquired a perky little man who had known the Marquis as a patron at a dozen other meetings.
“Splendid, Simmons,” replied his patron; “but why such serious scenes, why not a jolly jig with sailors; poor Nelson, surely he’s out of place?”
“By no means, my Lord; on the contrary, my audiences will ’ave it, and if only Mr. Fuljome would act up to ’Ardy’s part it would bring down the ’ouse. It’s this way, my Lord: Nelson says: ‘’Ardy, I’m wounded mortually,’ and then, of course, ‘’Ardy must say melancholy like: ‘Not mortually, my Lord?’ But blow me if I can get it right.”
“D— the drama,” replied the kindly Marquis. “Have you any one to send for a drink?” And pulling out two or three sovereigns the party proceeded on their quest.
“Now, my Lord,” was next shouted from a roulette booth. “We’re just ready for the swells. Step in, gentlemen,” continued a flash-looking rascal. “Ah! Mr. Broome,” he added, as he recognised the ex-puncher, “no need for you, I hope.”
“Perhaps not, Levi,” replied the Marquis. “But we’ve got some quarrelsome chaps about; best be prepared.” And again we proceeded on our pilgrimage.
“Where are the tableaux vivants, Hastings?” inquired Fred Ellis. “Damn it, we must show the Baron.” But at this moment an unrehearsed incident occurred which stopped the future legislator’s eloquence.