Not that sharpers did not occasionally wriggle in, who, after the soberer players had left, resorted to reckless measures to rook the more adventurous spirits, who in the small hours were more or less tipsy.
An Irish peer (still living) suspecting on one occasion that the dice were loaded—as no doubt they were, having been changed—and just sober enough to pocket them and leave the room, was surprised next morning after having them broken, to find that they were perfectly genuine, and thereupon paid his losses, which were considerable. It transpired later that the sharpers, who were staying at the same lodgings (hotels were not patronised in those days), had entered his room whilst he was sleeping off the night’s debauch and changed the guilty “bones.”
On another occasion a man with large estates in the Riding who had sense enough to know he was too drunk to play, and had been heard to refuse, was considerably astonished next day on the course at being accosted by a gentlemanly stranger, who, producing twenty pounds in bank notes, thanked him for his courtesy in allowing his debt of overnight to stand over, and despite his protests of having “no recollection of the transaction,” was literally forced to accept the money.
Two hours later, however, another stranger approached him and reminded him of ninety pounds he had won from him overnight, and again R. R. protested he had no “recollection of the transaction,” when a friend passing by chance, the matter was referred to him. He promptly asserted he was in the rooms all the evening, and distinctly remembered R. R. refusing to play; whereupon the sharper, threatening to have satisfaction, walked away, and neither he nor his twenty-pound colleague was seen again.
It was surprising the number of Scotsmen that came in those long-ago days to see the Leger run, and who, night after night foregathered in the Assembly Rooms for no object apparently but to drink “whusky.”
“Come awa, mon, come awa!” I once heard an old Scot insist as he escorted an inebriated countryman out, and from a discussion that ensued after the delinquent had disappeared I gleaned that he was an “elder,” and that “Brother Dalziel was very powerful in prayer.”
CHAPTER IX.
RACING PAR EXCELLENCE.
A visit I once paid to Castle Donington had initiated me into many of the mysteries of racing of which I had hitherto been in profound ignorance. I had learnt that heavy plungers often deputed minor satellites to bet according to instructions, and had witnessed “private” trials—which it was well known were being watched—where ruses were resorted to that would have impressed the most sceptical by their realism. I had seen a “favourite” pulled up, and within half a minute a blood-stained pocket-handkerchief hurriedly smuggled into the rider’s pocket; I had witnessed a horse backed for thousands go lame without apparent cause a week before a race, and hobble through the village as if on its way to the knacker’s, and I marvelled—till I gradually became more enlightened—at the profound acumen of those in authority who could bring such invalids to the post in the best of health and spirits.
I also made the acquaintance of numerous shining lights of the Turf, some that blazed with universally admitted lustre, and some that emitted a shady, indescribable glimmer apt to mislead the wayfarer.
Amongst the former none held a more honourable position, or was a greater favourite, than Mr. George Payne. A man of likes and dislikes, he had apparently taken a fancy to me and often gave me hints that sturdier recipients would have converted into thousands.