George Fraser - Flashman at the Charge

The little gudgeon was standing woebegone, holding his limp purse. I thought of speeding him on his way with a taunt or two, and then I had a sudden bright idea.

‘Cleaned out, Snooks?’ says I. He started, eyed me suspiciously, and then stuck his purse in his pocket and turned to the door.

‘Hold on,’ says I. ‘I’m not a Captain Sharp; you needn’t run away. He rooked you properly, didn’t he?’

He stopped, flushing. ‘I suppose he did. What is it to you?’

‘Oh, nothing at all. I just thought you might care for a drink to drown your sorrows.’

He gave me a wary look; you could see him thinking, here’s another of them.

‘I thank you, no,’ says he, and added: ‘I have no money left whatever.’

‘I’d be surprised if you had,’ says I, ‘but fortunately I have. Hey, waiter.’

The boy was looking nonplussed, as though he wanted to go out into the street and weep over his lost fifteen quid, but at the same time not averse to some manly comfort from this cheery chap. Even Tom Hughes allowed I could charm when I wanted to, and in two minutes I had him looking into a brandy glass, and soon after that we were chatting away like old companions.

He was a foreigner, doing the tour, I gathered, in the care of some tutor from whom he had managed to slip away to have a peep at the flesh-pots of London. The depths of depravity for him, it seemed, was a billiard-room, so he had made for this one and been quickly inveigled and fleeced.

‘At least it has been a lesson to me,’ says he, with that queer formal gravity which a man so often uses in speaking a language not his own. ‘But how am I to explain my empty purse to Dr Winter? What will he think?’

‘Depends how coarse an imagination he’s got,’ says I. ‘You needn’t fret about him; he’ll be so glad to get you back safe and sound, I doubt if he’ll ask too many questions.’

‘That is true,’ says my lad, thoughtfully. ‘He will fear for his own position. Why, he has been a negligent guardian, has he not?’

‘Dam’ slack,’ says I. ‘The devil with him. Drink up, boy, and confusion to Dr Winter.’

You may wonder why I was buying drink and being pleasant to this flat; it was just a whim I had dreamed up to be even with Cutts. I poured a little more into my new acquaintance, and got him quite merry, and then, with an eye on the table where Cutts was trimming up Speed, and gloating over it, I says to the youth:

‘I tell you what, though, my son, it won’t do for the sporting name of Old England if you creep back home without some credit. I can’t put the fifteen sovs back in your pocket, but I’ll tell you what – just do as I tell you, and I’ll see that you win a game before you walk out of this hall.’

‘Ah, no – that, no,’ says he. ‘I have played enough; once is sufficient – besides, I tell you, I have no more money.’

‘Gammon,’ says I. ‘Who’s talking about money? You’d like to win a match, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes, but …’ says he, and the wary look was back in his eye. I slapped him on the knee, jolly old Flash.

‘Leave it to me,’ says I. ‘What, man, it’s just in fun. I’ll get you a game with a pal of mine, and you’ll trim him up, see if you don’t.’

‘But I am the sorriest player,’ cries he. ‘How can I beat your friend?’

‘You ain’t as bad as you think you are,’ says I. ‘Depend on it. Now just sit there a moment.’

I slipped over to one of the markers whom I knew well. ‘Joe,’ says I, ‘give me a shaved ball, will you?’

‘What’s that, cap’n?’ says he. ‘There’s no such thing in this ’ouse.’

‘Don’t fudge me, Joe. I know better. Come on, man, it’s just for a lark, I tell you. No money, no rooking.’

He looked doubtful, but after a moment he went behind his counter and came back with a set of billiard pills. ‘Spot’s the boy,’ says he. ‘But mind, Cap’n Flashman, no nonsense, on your honour.’

‘Trust me,’ says I, and went back to our table. ‘Now, Sam Snooks, just you pop those about for a moment.’ He was looking quite perky, I noticed, what with the booze and, I suspect, a fairly bouncy little spirit under his mamma’s boy exterior. He seemed to have forgotten his fleecing at any rate, and was staring about him at the fellows playing at nearby tables, some in flowery weskits and tall hats and enormous whiskers, others in the new fantastic coloured shirts that were coming in just then, with death’s heads and frogs and serpents all over them; our little novice was drinking it all in, listening to the chatter and laughter, and watching the waiters weave in and out with their trays, and the markers calling off the breaks. I suppose it’s something to see, if you’re a bumpkin.

I went over to where Cutts was just demolishing Speed, and as the pink ball went away, I says:

‘There’s no holding you tonight, Cutts, old fellow. Just my luck, when my eye’s out, to meet first you and then that little terror in the corner yonder.’

‘What, have you been browned again?’ says he, looking round. ‘Oh, my stars, never by that , though, surely? Why, he’s not out of leading-strings, by the looks of him.’

‘Think so?’ says I. ‘He’ll give you twenty in the hundred, any day.’

Well, of course, that settled it, with a conceited pup like Cutts; nothing would do but he must come over, with his toadies in his wake, making great uproar and guffawing, and offer to make a game with my little greenhorn.

‘Just for love, mind,’ says I, in case Joe the marker was watching, but Cutts wouldn’t have it; insisted on a bob a point, and I had to promise to stand good for my man, who shied away as soon as cash was mentioned. He was pretty tipsy by now, or I doubt if I’d have got him to stay at the table, for he was a timid squirt, even in drink, and the bustling and catcalling of the fellows made him nervous. I rolled him the plain ball, and away they went, Cutts chalking his cue with a flourish and winking to his pals.

You’ve probably never seen a shaved ball used – but then, you wouldn’t know it if you had. The trick is simple; your sharp takes an ordinary ball beforehand, and gets a craftsman to peel away just the most delicate shaving of ivory from one side of it; some clumsy cheats try to do it by rubbing it with fine sand-paper, but that shows up like a whore in church. Then, in the game, he makes certain his opponent gets the shaved ball, and plays away. The flat never suspects a thing, for a carefully shaved ball can’t be detected except with the very slowest of slow shots, when it will waver ever so slightly just before it stops. But of course, even with fast shots it goes off the true just a trifle, and in as fine a game as billiards or pool, where precision is everything, a trifle is enough.

It was for Cutts, anyhow. He missed cannons by a whisker, his winning hazards rattled in the jaws of the pocket and stayed out, his losers just wouldn’t drop, and when he tried a jenny he often missed the red altogether. He swore blind and fumed, and I said, ‘My, my, damme, that was close, what?’ and my little greenhorn plugged away – he was a truly shocking player, too – and slowly piled up the score. Cutts couldn’t fathom it, for he knew he was hitting his shots well, but nothing would go right.

I helped him along by suggesting he was watching the wrong ball – a notion which is sure death, once it has been put in a player’s mind – and he got wild and battered away recklessly, and my youngster finally ran out an easy winner, by thirty points.

I was interested to notice he got precious cocky at this. ‘Billiards is not a difficult game, after all,’ says he, and Cutts ground his teeth and began to count out his change. His fine chums, of course, were bantering him unmercifully – which was all I’d wanted in the first place.