George Fraser - Flash for Freedom!

As Fanny and Aunt Selina took their seats, an old fellow with white whiskers leans across to me. ‘I must warn you,’ says he, ‘that Lord George has us playing very deep – plunging recklessly, you know.’ He held up some counters. ‘The green ones are – a farthing; the blue – a ha’penny; and the yellow – you must take care – are a penny ! It is desperate work, you see!’

‘I’m coming for you, Sir Michael!’ cries Bentinck, slapping the pack. ‘Now, ladies are you ready? Then, one for all, and all for the lucky winner!’ And he flicked the cards round to the players.

It was silly harmless stuff, you see, all good nature and playfulness – and as desperate a card game as I ever sat in on in my life. Not that you’d have guessed it at first, with Bentinck making everyone merry, and one of the players – a sulky-looking youth of about fourteen, of the kind whose arse I delighted to kick in happier days – protesting that he was cleaned out, and Bentinck solemnly offering to take his note of hand for two-pence. Fanny was all excitement, holding her card up close for me to see and asking how much she should go, which gave me the opportunity to huddle in and stroke her bare shoulders as I whispered in her ear. Next to her, old Aunt Selina was buying cards like a St James’s shark, very precise and slow; she took four and paused at 17; Bentinck was watching her, his handsome face very intent, his thumb poised on the next card; she took it, and it was a trey, which meant that she had a five-card hand, at which there was great applause, and Bentinck laughed and cried ‘Well done, ma’am,’ as he paid her counters over.

‘I never buy beyond 16, you know,’ Aunt Selina confided to Fanny, ‘unless it is for a five-card hand. I find it a very good rule.’

So the game went round, and I found myself thinking that it doesn’t take high stakes to show up who the real gamesters are. You could sense the rapport there was between Bentinck and Aunt Selina – two folk with not a jot in common, mark you. He was one of the sportsmen of the day, used to playing for thousands, a grandee of the turf and the tables who could watch a fortune slip away in five seconds at Epsom and never bat an eyelid, and here he was, watching like a hawk as some dowager hesitated over a farthing stake, or frowning as the sullen Master Jerry lost his two-penny I.O.U. and promptly demanded further credit. Wasn’t it Greville who said that the money Lord George Bentinck won was just so many paper counters to him – it was the game that mattered? And Aunt Selina was another of the same; she duelled with him like a good ’un, and won as often as not, and he liked her for it.

And then the bank passed round to Fanny, and I had to deal the cards for her. Bryant, who had raised a great laugh by coming round to touch Aunt Selina’s mittened hand for luck, said we should have a fair deal at last, since I had been notoriously the worst vingt-et-un player in the whole Light Cavalry – there was more polite mirth at this, and I gave him a hard look as he went back to Mrs Locke, and wondered to myself just what he had meant by that. Then Fanny, all twittering as she handled the stakes, claimed my attention, and I dealt the cards.

If you know vingt-et-un – or poor man’s baccarat, or blackjack, or pontoon, whichever you like to call it – you know that the object is not to go above 21 with the cards dealt to you. It’s a gambler’s game, in which you must decide whether to stay pat at 16 or 17, or risk another card which may break you or, if it’s a small one, may give you a winning score of 20 or 21. I’ve played it from Sydney to Sacramento, and learned to stick at 17, like Aunt Selina. The odds are with the bank, since when the scores are level the banker takes the stakes.

Fanny and I had a good bank. I dealt her 19 the first round, which sank everyone except D’Israeli, who had two court cards for 20. The next time I gave Fanny an ace and a knave for vingt-et-un, which swamped the whole board, and she clapped her hands and squealed with delight. Then we ran two five-card hands in succession, and the punters groaned aloud and protested at our luck, and Bentinck jestingly asked Aunt Selina if she would stand good for him, and she cried ‘With you, Lord George!’ and made great play of changing his silver for her coppers.

I was interested in the game by this time – it’s a fact, Greville was right, it don’t matter a d--n how small the stakes are – and Fanny was full of excitement and admiration for my luck. She shot me an adoring look over her shoulder, and I glanced down at her quivering bosoms and thought to myself, you’ll be in rare trim for another kind of game later. Get ’em excited – a fight is best, with the claret flowing, but any kind of sport will do, if there’s a hint of savagery in it – and they’ll couple like monkeys. And then, as I pulled my eyes away and dealt the first cards of another hand, looking to see that all the stakes were placed, I saw that on Mrs Locke’s card there was a pile of yellow counters – about two bob’s worth. That meant they had an ace, for certain. And they had, but it did ’em no good; they drew a seven with it, bought a five, and then went broke with a king. But next time round they staked an even bigger pile of yellows, lost again, and came back with a still larger wager for the following hand.

I paused in the act of dealing the second cards. ‘You’re playing double or quits, ma’am,’ says I to Mrs Locke. ‘Road to ruin.’

But before she could speak, Bryant cut in: ‘Stakes too high for you, are they? Why, if you can’t afford …’

‘Not a bit,’ says I. ‘If my principal’s content,’ and I looked down at Fanny, who was sitting with a splendid pile of counters before her.

‘Oh, do go on, please!’ cries she. ‘It is the greatest fun!’ So I put round the second cards; if Bryant thought he was going to rattle me over a few shillings’ worth of stake he was a bigger fool than I thought. But I knew he wasn’t a fool, and that he was a d---d sharp hand at card tricks, so I kept my eye on Mrs Locke’s place.

They lost again, and next time Mrs Locke would only put up a single yellow, on which they won. There was a good deal of heavy jesting at this, and I saw Bryant whispering busily in her ear. When I dealt the first card he pounced on it, they consulted together, and then they put their whole pile – yellows, blues, everything, on top of the card, and Bryant gave me a nasty grin and stood back waiting.

I couldn’t follow this; it couldn’t be better than an ace, and it was just a kindergarten game, anyway. Did he think he could score off me by breaking Miss Fanny’s bank? I noticed Bentinck was smiling, in a half-puzzled way, and D’Israeli was fingering his card thoughtfully and shifting his lidded glance from Bryant to me. They were wondering, too, and suddenly I felt that cold touch at the nape of my neck that is the warning signal of danger.

It was ridiculous, of course; a ha’penny game in a country house, but I could sense Bryant was as worked up as if there’d been a thousand guineas riding on his partner’s card. It wasn’t healthy, and I wanted to be out of that game then and there, but I’d have looked a fool, and Aunt Selina was tapping for a second card and looking at me severely.

I put them round, and perhaps because I had that tiny unease I fumbled Master Jerry’s second card, so that it fell face up. I should have taken it back, by rights, but it was an ace, and the little scoundrel, who should have been in his bed long before, insisted on keeping it. Bryant snapped up Mrs Locke’s second card and showed it to her with a grin; D’Israeli displayed vingt-et-un by laying his second card, a queen, face up across the first one. The rest bought a third or stood pat.