It is satisfactory to be able to add that in terror of possible consequences, the brothers paid £200 to their victim before he attained convalescence—a circumstance we have probably to thank for their still being amongst us.
Machell, from the exigencies of his profession, was unquestionably the ruin of numerous aspiring punters whose interests clashed with his own. Beaumont Dixie, whose inclinations tended towards always backing “Archer’s mounts,” was a notable example, and any one who witnessed the scene in the paddock after a race where Machell’s horse did not win, will not be likely to forget the ruined Baronet wringing his hands in despair, and the irate owner standing over him with “Now, Mr. b— Beaumont Dixie, I’ll teach you to back Archer’s mounts.” It will be said by many that Machell was a popular man, that he was generous, and deserving of every credit for repurchasing an ancestral estate that was supposed to have once belonged to the family; others, however, will contend that he was of a selfish and over-bearing disposition, that his charity was dispensed when and where it was likely to become known, and that no better or wiser investment than an estate could have been made by a man whose capital must have been enormous, and who hoped, by becoming a landed proprietor, to gain the position seldom attained by a landless man. Probably Machell was never so good a fellow as when he was hopping on and off mantelpieces, and when an accident would have broken his neck and his fortune—the value of his commission—at one blow.
That Machell was born under a lucky star goes without saying, and is proven by his career from the day he sold out with nothing but his commission money to his death, when he died worth a quarter of a million. Popular as a poor man, he every day became more morose as his pile increased, and his first success through the introduction of his brother-in-law, Prime (or his wife), to Lord Calthorpe (for whom he eventually trained), led him by easy stages to Mr. Henry Chaplin, Joe Aylesford, and finally to Harry McCalmont, where all his paths were peace.
His marvellous capacity for “out-touting” the touts with which Newmarket was infested was once exemplified during the trials for the Stewards’ Cup at Goodwood. Suddenly dismounting and diving into his pocket he dropped (apparently) by accident a paper which purported to contain the weights at which the favourite and others were being tried. Needless to add, the list had been carefully prepared, and what if true would have been fatal to the favourite’s performance was, in fact, a highly satisfactory trial.
Within an hour it was reported at the Victoria Club that the favourite had gone wrong, and 30 and 40 to 1 against him literally went begging. Two hours later a pre-arranged telegram reached his agent, and the money that was piled on by the stable brought a golden harvest at Goodwood.
Doncaster stands out through the long vista of years so prominently with charms that appealed to every taste that a reference to the old Assembly Rooms may be pardonable.
Every one who has rambled through the quaint old streets of Doncaster must have noticed these unpretentious-looking rooms, which, for aught I know, may still echo during the Leger week with the blatant babble of the cheap excursion sportsman, but which in ’67 were the nightly rendezvous of the various house-parties, and where Major Mahan, who did most of James Merry’s commissions, was the recognised master of ceremonies.
In the smaller room on the left as one entered, hazard, fast and furious, raged pretty well through the night under the auspices of Atkins, a lank, white-bearded man, who had an unofficial monopoly at Goodwood and other meetings which no rival dared to dispute. During the Sussex week he rented a large house near where the Brighton Aquarium now stands, and the best of everything was provided gratis.
Old Mahan, who in his youth had been a well-known duellist, had at this period simmered down to a fiery punter with a shiny forehead that extended to the nape of his neck, and a grizzly fringe in the vicinity of his ears. Superstitious to a degree, if the dice went against him he would seize any youngster entering the room whose physiognomy looked “lucky,” and forcing him into a chair would insist on his calling the main, and then backing him blindly. “Aren’t yer surproised at me losing so incessantly?” he once inquired of Sir Robert Peel, who happened to be standing at his elbow.
“Not in the least,” was the caustic answer; “but we all wonder where you get the money to play with.”