The Mysteries of London (Vol. 1-4). George W. M. Reynolds
you have a good stake to get, secure a five every time; because when the main is six to five, or seven to five, or eight to five, or nine to five, or ten to five, you must win every time, because you can't possibly throw out while the five is secured."
"But will not the ear tell the pigeon that there is only one die rattling in the box?" demanded the baronet.
"Look at this box," exclaimed Chichester. "It has two rims cut inside, near the bottom: the one die shaking against them produces the sound of two dice."
"Are there not some peculiarities about these dice?" asked Sir Rupert, pointing to a pair which Chichester had placed apart from the rest.
"Yes—those are unequal dice, and are so well made that no one, except a regular sharper, could detect them. They are bigger at one end than the other, and the sixes are placed on the smaller squares, because you must play with these dice to win upon high numbers, which are on those smaller squares. The dice will in nine cases out of ten fall upon the larger squares, and thus show the high numbers uppermost."
"And these dice?" enquired the baronet, taking up two others.
"Loaded ones," replied Chichester. "These are to throw low; and so the two sides which have got four and five on them are loaded."
"How are they loaded?" asked Sir Rupert.
"The corner pip of the four side, next to the five side, is bored very neatly to a certain depth: the same is done to the corner pip of the five side, adjoining the four side. Thus the two holes, so bored, meet each other at right angles. One of the holes is covered over with some strong cement: quicksilver is then poured in; and the other hole is covered over with the cement. The spots are blackened; and your dice are ready for use. These being intended to throw low, you must call a main, and take the odds accordingly."
"Well," said the baronet, "I think I can now safely say that I know enough of the elements of your grammar to enable me to practise myself. Let us devote half an hour to the working of cards."
"The ways of managing the cards," said Chichester, taking up a pack, and shuffling them, "are numerous. These, for instance, are Longs and Shorts. All the cards above the eight, are the least thing longer than those below it. I have a machine which was invented on purpose to cut them accurately. Nothing under an eight can be cut, you see, with these cards, lengthways."
"And that pack so carefully wrapped up in the paper?"
"Oh! these are my Concaves and Convexes. All from the two to the seven are cut concave; and all from the eight to the king are cut convex. By cutting the pack breadthways a convex card is cut; by cutting it lengthways, a concave one is secured."
"I have often heard of the bridge," said Sir Rupert; "what does that mean?"
"Oh! the bridge is simply and easily done," replied Chichester, shuffling the pack which he held in his hand. "You see it is nothing but slightly curving a card, and introducing it carelessly into the pack. Shuffle the cards as your opponent will, you are sure to be able to cut the bridged one."
"I could do that without study," observed Sir Rupert Harborough. "Is my initiation now complete?"
"There are several other schemes with the cards," answered Chichester, "but I think that I have taught you enough for this evening. One famous device, however, must not be forgotten. You have heard of the way in which Lord de Roos lately attempted to cheat his noble companions at the club? The plan practised by him is called sauter la coupe, and enables the dealer to do what he chooses with one particular card, which of course he has selected for this purpose. Now look how it is done; for I can better show practically than explain verbally."
Scarcely was this portion of the lesson accomplished, when steps were heard ascending the stairs; and immediately afterwards a heavy fist knocked with more violence than courtesy at the parlour door.
The baronet and Chichester both turned pale.
"They can't have found us out here?" murmured the one to the other in a hoarse and tremulous tone.
"What shall we do?"
"We must open—happen what will."
Chichester unlocked the door: two ill-looking men entered the room.
"Mr. Arthur Chichester?" said one.
"He isn't here—we don't know him. My name is Davis—ask the landlady if it is not," cried Chichester hurriedly, and in a manner which only served to convince the officer that he was right.
"Come—come, none of that there gammon," said the bailiff. "I knows you well enough: my name's Garnell; and I'll stand the risk of your being Chichester. Here's execution out against you for four hundred and forty-seven pounds. I don't suppose that you can pay—so you'd better come off at once."
"Where to?" demanded Chichester, seeing that it was no use disputing his own identity any longer.
"Where to!" cried the officer; "why—to Whitecross, to be sure! Where the devil would you go to?"
"Can I not be allowed to sleep in a sponging-house?"
"No—this is an execution, and a large sum, mind. I don't dare do it."
"Well, then—here goes for Whitecross Street!" said Chichester; and after exchanging a few words in a whisper with the baronet, he left the house with the sheriff's officers.
CHAPTER XXXV.
WHITECROSS-STREET PRISON.
A COLD drizzling rain was falling, as Chichester proceeded along the streets leading to the debtors' prison. The noise of pattens upon the pavement; the numbers of umbrellas that were up; the splashing of horses' feet and carriage-wheels in the kennels; the rush of cabs and the shouting of omnibus-cads, were all characteristic of a wet night in a crowded metropolis.
Chichester shivered—more through nervousness than actual cold; and he felt an oppressive sensation at the bottom of his stomach, as well as at the chest.
The officer endeavoured to console him, by observing that "it was lucky he had been taken so close to the prison on such a rainy night."
The ruined young man envied many a poor wretch whom he passed on his way; for he knew that it was far easier to get into a debtors' gaol than to get out of it.
At length they arrived at the prison.
It was now nine o'clock; and the place, viewed by the flickering light of the lamp at the gate of the governor's house, wore a melancholy and sombre appearance. The prisoner was introduced into a small lobby, where an elderly turnkey with knee-breeches and gaiters, thrust a small loaf of bread into his hand, and immediately consigned him to the care of another turnkey, who led him through several alleys to the staircase communicating with the Receiving Ward.
The turnkey pulled a wire, which rang a bell on the first floor.
"Who rings?" cried a voice at the top of the stairs.
"Sheriffs debtor—Arthur Chichester—L. S.," replied the turnkey, in a loud sing-song voice.
Chichester afterwards learnt that he was mentioned as a sheriff's prisoner, in contra-distinction