i think i mentioned in a former “memoir” that we had had a billiard-table put up. it was harry’s idea. he is very fond of a game of billiards himself, and is not at all a bad player, so i have heard from the gentlemen who play with him. of course, he didn’t go to the expense for himself, you may be sure of that, but as an improvement to the house.
the way it came about was this. there was an old fellow who used our house named jim marshall. he was quite a character in his way. he was very stout, and walked lame with one leg, and was full of queer sayings. not a bad fellow; but he had to be kept in his place, or else he would presume. he was hand-and-glove, as the saying is, with almost everybody in the neighbourhood, rich and poor alike. he was a capital whist-player, knew all about horses and dogs, and could sing a good song. he was a bachelor, and lived all by himself in a tumbledown old house, where he had hundreds of pounds’ worth of curiosities, old pictures, old furniture, and old books, the place being so crammed from kitchen to attic that sometimes when he went home a little the worse for his evening’s amusement, he wasn’t able to steer himself, as harry called it, across the things to get to bed, and would go to sleep in an old steel fender, with his head on a brass coal-scuttle for a pillow.
jim marshall was a broker—that is to say, he went all about the neighbourhood to sales and bought things for gentlemen, and sometimes for himself. all round our village there are old-fashioned houses and farms full of old-{197}fashioned furniture and china, and things of that sort, that nowadays are very much run after, and fetch a good price. old jim knew everybody’s business and what everybody had got, because he used to do their business for them. these people, if they wanted anything, would tell jim to look out for it for them, and if they wanted to sell anything they always sent for jim, and he would find a purchaser for them on the quiet.
the neighbourhood round our place is full of people who have gone down since railways came in, because we are too near to london, and london has taken all the local trade. a lot of people lived and kept up appearances on what their fathers made before them—business people i mean—and when that was gone they had to give up their style and go into smaller houses, which, of course, they moved away to do, nobody who has been grand and looked up to for years in a place caring to look small there.
this gradual decay of the neighbourhood (not where we live—the railway has made us—but little towns and places round about) was a good thing for jim, as there were lots of good old houses selling off their furniture and things, and he had lots of customers in london who wanted chippendale and sheraton and adam’s furniture, and old books, and old clocks, and old china, and old silver ornaments; and these houses being in the country, there weren’t many brokers at the sales, so jim was able to pick up plenty of bargains for his customers, and make a good thing for himself as well.
plenty of ladies and gentlemen who came to our house, and got to know of marshall being always at sales, would give him their address, and tell him always to send them a catalogue, if there was anything good going. mr. saxon, the author, i know, got a bookcase through jim, a real old chippendale for eleven pounds that was worth sixty pounds if it was worth a penny, and we have some fine old-fashioned things at the ‘stretford arms’ that jim marshall got us at sales.
you had only to say to jim marshall that you wanted a thing, and he would never rest till he got it for you. he would go into the grandest house in the neighbourhood and ask to see the gentleman, and say, “i say, sir, what{198} will you take for your sideboard? i’ve a customer that wants one.”
“hang your impudence, marshall!” the gentleman would say. “do you think i keep a furniture shop?”
“no offence, sir,” jim would say. “only remember, when you do want to part with it, i’m in the market.” that was how he would begin. presently he would call on the gentleman again, and say he knew of a magnificent sideboard, two hundred years old, in an old farmhouse, that could be got cheap. and he would go on about it until, perhaps, he would work the gentleman up to buy the other sideboard and let him have the one he had a customer for, and he would make a nice thing out of the two bargains for himself.
he was very clever at it, because he knew the fancies of different people, and how to work on them. but the most impudent thing he ever did was with an old lady, who had a lovely pair of chestnut horses. a gentleman who was staying at our hotel one day saw them go by, and he said, “by jove, that’s a fine pair of horses!—that’s just the pair i want.”
jim marshall was standing by at the time, and he said, “i’ll try and get ’em for you.” and he shouted, and waved his stick, and yelled at the coachman, who thought something was wrong, and pulled up.
jim hobbled off till he came to the carriage, then raised his hat to the old lady, and said, “i beg your pardon, ma’am, but if you want to sell your horses, i’ve a customer for them.”
“what!” shrieked the old lady. and she shouted to the coachman to drive on, and pulled the window up with a bang.
jim came back, not looking a bit ashamed of himself; and he said, “i’ve broken the ice. now, sir, how much am i to go to for them horses?”
“the idea!” i said, for i had seen and heard everything; “as if old mrs. —— would be likely to part with them! i do believe jim you’d go up to a clergyman in church, and ask him what he’d take for his surplice!”
jim smiled at that. it flattered his vanity, because{199} nothing pleased him so much as being made out a smart fellow before london gentlemen.
“i’ll have them horses, mrs. beckett,” he said, “if the gentleman’ll go to a price.”
“well,” said the gentleman, “i’m not in a hurry. i’ve got a very good pair now; but if they could be got for one hundred and twenty pounds, i wouldn’t mind.”
“is that an order?” said jim.
“yes,” said the gentleman, “i’ll give one hundred and twenty pounds.”
“you’ll get a bargain if you get them at that,” said jim, “for i know from the coachman as the lady paid over two hundred pounds for ’em, and they weren’t dear at that. but i’ll see what i can do.”
the gentleman got those horses through jim, and he got them for the one hundred and twenty pounds. and it was only through a third party letting out the secret that i heard afterwards how it was done, and i’m not going to tell because it was told me in confidence; but i may say the old lady’s coachman was always being treated by jim in a very generous manner. and soon after that, one of the horses took to showing temper in a way he had never done before, and the coachman told the old lady that sometimes after a certain age horses that had been very quiet developed a vice.
jim marshall had a great “pal,” as he called him, in our local veterinary surgeon—rather a fast young fellow, who was the great sporting authority, and was supposed to know more about horses and dogs than anybody in the county. i believe he was very clever—he certainly did wonders for our pony when it was ill—but he was too fond of betting, and going to london for a day or two, and coming back looking very seedy, so that he was generally hard up. soon after the old lady’s horses had changed their ways so suddenly, the veterinary and old jim were standing outside our house, when they saw old mr. jenkins, the old lady’s gardener, who had been with her for thirty years, come in. he was coming to see me about some fruit, which we wanted to buy of him for preserving, and about supplying us with vegetables from the kitchen garden.{200}
mr. jenkins was, of course, asked into our parlour, and while he was there, in walks the veterinary, and they began to talk, till the conversation got on the horses. “ah!” said the veterinary, “they’re a nice pair, but they aren’t quite the sort for your lady. i watched the mare go by the other day, and there was something about her i didn’t like. i dare say she’s all right in double harness, but i wouldn’t care to drive her myself in single.”
then he began to tell stories about carriage accidents and runaway horses, till mr. jenkins turned quite pale, and said he should never know another minute’s peace while his mistress was out with “them animals.”
he went back, and you may be sure he told the lady all he had heard, and made the most of it. and the old lady was made quite nervous, and sent for the coachman, and the coachman said of course it wasn’t his place to say anything; but, if he was asked his honest opinion, he couldn’t say that he always felt quite safe with the horses himself. however, he should always be careful and do his best to prevent an accident.
a week after that, jim marshall got the horses for a hundred pounds. the old lady sent to him to come and take them, and he found her a nice quiet pair, that somebody else wanted to sell. i expect he did very well out of the transaction, and so did the old lady’s coachman.
this will show you what sort of a man jim marshall was, and how useful he could be to anybody who wanted anything. he got us our billiard-table, and it was in this way. harry was saying one night that, as soon as he could afford it, he would have a billiard-room; but he couldn’t yet, as the table would cost such a lot of money, if it was by a good maker.
“nonsense!” said marshall; “do you want a good billiard-table?”
“well,” said harry, “i do want one, but i can’t afford——”
“it isn’t a question of affording. if i can get you one as good as new, with all the fittings complete—balls, cues, and everything—will you go to fifty pounds?”
“certainly,” said harry.
“then get your billiard-room ready.{201}”
harry knew marshall would keep his word. so we made a room at the back, with a little alteration, into a billiard-room. and as soon as it was ready marshall said, “all right. the table is coming down from london to-morrow.”
and it did come, and a beautiful table it was, and as good as new. harry said it couldn’t have been played on many times, and must have cost a lot of money when it was new. marshall, it seems, knew of a young gentleman in london, who had come into some money, and fitted up a billiard-room in his house, and then taken a fit into his head to travel. and when he came back he didn’t want to live in a house any more, but was going to have chambers, and he wanted to get rid of a lot of his things. how marshall did it, i don’t know; but, at any rate, we got our table and everything complete for fifty pounds.
having a billiard-table was very nice for some things. gentlemen who stayed at the hotel—artists, and such like—found it a great comfort on wet days and long evenings, and several of the young gentlemen from the houses round about would come in, and get up a game at pool, and it certainly did the house good in that way, though it brought one or two customers that i didn’t care about at all—young fellows who were too clever by half, as harry said, and who came to make money at the game, and i don’t think were very particular how they made it.
harry said, when we put the table up, that we should have to be careful, and keep the place select, as, if a billiard-room wasn’t well looked after, it soon got to be a meeting-place for the wrong class of customers.
when the table was first put up, mr. wilkins and graves, the farrier, and one or two more of that sort, thought it was being put up for them.
mr. wilkins said he thought it was a better game than bagatelle, and he should have to practise, and then he would soon give harry a beating.
harry said, “you can practise as much as you like, wilkins; but it’ll be sixpence a game if you play anybody, two shillings an hour if you practise, and a guinea if you cut the cloth.”
you should have seen wilkins’s face at that!{202}
“two shillings an hour!” he said; “i thought you were putting it up for the good of the house.”
a nice idea, wasn’t it, that we had gone to the expense of a billiard-room and a table, and were going to engage a boy to mark, and all for the amusement of mr. wilkins and his friends! that is the worst of old customers. they don’t advance with the business, and they seem to think that they are to have their own way in everything.
the day after the table was up harry asked mr. wilkins to come and look at it. the balls were put on the table, harry having been knocking them about to try the cushions.
of course, wilkins must take up a cue, and show how clever he was. “see me put the white in the pocket off the red,” he said. he hit the white ball so hard, that it jumped off the cushion and went smash through the window.
“wilkins, old man,” said harry, “i think you’d better practice billiards out on the common. this place isn’t big enough for you.”
i shall always remember our opening the billiard-room, from the young fellow who came to us to be our first marker.
we were going to have a boy—one who could fill up his time about the house—at first; but, as a matter of fact, our first billiard-marker, though he didn’t stay long, was a young fellow named bright—“charley bright,” everybody about the place called him.
poor charley! his was a sad story. when we first knew him, he was living in one room over mrs. megwith’s shop. mrs. megwith has a little drapery and stationery shop, and sells nearly everything. he was quite the gentleman. you could tell that by the way he spoke, and by his clothes, which, though they were shabby, were well cut and well made, and you could see that he had once been what is called a “swell.”
he was very tall and very good-looking. he had dark, sparkling eyes, and always a high colour, and very pretty curly, dark hair. but, oh, he was so dreadfully thin! one day i said to mrs. megwith, “how thin your young man lodger is!” “yes,” she said; “and it isn’t to be{203} wondered at. i don’t believe he has anything to eat of a day but a few slices of bread and butter.”
“is he so very poor?” i said.
“poor! he owes me eight weeks’ rent, and i know that he’s pawned everything except what he stands upright in. i can’t find it in my heart to turn him out, he’s such a good-hearted fellow, and a perfect gentleman; but i can’t afford to lose the rent of the room much longer. he’s welcome to the tea and bread-and-butter; but the five shillings a week rent means something to a struggling widow woman with a family.”
how we got to know charley bright was through one or two of the young gentlemen bringing him, now and then, to have a drink. they had made his acquaintance, and he knew a lot about racing, and was a capital talker, and so they used to talk to him. i noticed once or twice when they stood him a drink he would ask for a glass of wine, and say, “just give me a biscuit with it, please.” a biscuit, poor fellow!—it was a leg of mutton with it that he wanted—but nobody knew how terribly poor he was.
on the day after our billiard-room was opened charley bright came in by himself. harry had gone up to london, to see about some business. “mrs. beckett,” he said, almost blushing; “i hear you want a billiard-marker. i wish you’d try me.”
“what!” i said, “you a billiard-marker?”
“yes. i can play a very good game, and i wouldn’t mind what i did that i could do. i don’t want much. my meals in the house and a few shillings a week—just enough to pay my rent over the road.”
“well,” i said, “we shall want a marker; but, of course, there will be money to take and one thing and the other, and we shall want a reference. can you give us a reference?”
his face fell at that. “i—i—can’t refer to my people,” he said, “i shouldn’t like them to know what i was doing.”
i saw a little tear come into his eye as he spoke, and, knowing what i did, that nearly set me off. so i said, “won’t you have a glass of wine?” and i poured out a big glass of port, and i put the bread and cheese before him on the bar.{204}
it was the only way i could do it.
he knew what i meant, and the tears trickled right down his nose. “thank you,” he said, and his voice was so husky he could scarcely speak.
it upset me so terribly that i had to go into the parlour, so that he shouldn’t see me cry. i am an awful goose in that way—anything that is pathetic or miserable brings a gulp into my throat and the tears into my eyes in a minute.
i left him alone with the bread and cheese for a good ten minutes, and then i went back. he was evidently all the better for the meal, for he had got back the old spirits and began to smile and chatter away quite pleasantly.
“i’ll speak to my husband when he comes back, mr. bright,” i said. “i’m sure, if he can, he will let you have the place.”
“thank you, mrs. beckett,” he said; and then he told me his story. he was a young fellow, the son of a professional gentleman with a large family—gentlefolks, but not very well off. when he was eighteen he went into an office in the city, and after a time, being quick at figures and clever, he got two hundred pounds a year. unfortunately, he spent his evenings in a billiard-room at the west-end, where there were a very fast set of men, and among them a lot of betting men. charley bright took to betting, but only in small sums, and he used to play billiards for money; and what with one thing and another, and stopping out late at night, he got to neglect his business, to be late in the morning, and to make mistakes, and all that sort of thing.
but what ruined him was winning a thousand pounds. there was a horse running for the derby that had been a favourite at one time and had gone back to fifty to one, i think, or something like that. at any rate, mr. bright, who had won twenty pounds over a race, put it all on this horse at one thousand pounds to twenty pounds. this was long before the race was run, and after a time everybody thought this horse had gone wrong, and bright thought he had lost his money.
he had settled down again to business, and was getting more careful and not going to the billiard-room so much, when derby day came and the horse won!{205}
that was the turning-point in his career.
he had a thousand pounds.
he was always very excitable, he told me, and the good luck drove him nearly mad with joy.
he was going to take to the turf, and make a fortune in backing horses.
no more drudgery in the city, no more gloomy offices. he would be out all day long in the country, watching the horses run, and pocketing handfuls of sovereigns over the winners.
he resigned his situation in the city, he left his home and took lodgings in the west-end, dressed himself up as a great racing swell, and for about six months lived his life at express railway speed.
his eyes quite flashed, and his cheeks glowed, as he told of those days. it was one wild round of pleasure, it carried the poor lad away body and soul—and then the end came.
good fortune followed him at first; then came a change, and his “luck was dead out,” as he put it.
presently he had lost all his money backing horses, and got into debt, and had to part with his things. his people would not help him. his father was very severe, and never forgave him for throwing up his situation, and the young fellow was proud, and so he kept his poverty to himself as much as he could.
some of the fellows he had known when he was well off were kind to him in his misfortune for a bit; but as he got seedier and seedier they dropped away from him. and at last he was so ashamed of the dreadful position he had got in, that he didn’t care to go anywhere where people who had known him in his swell days were likely to be.
there was a billiard-room he used to go to for a long time, where he had first met the company that had been his ruin; but, though he had spent plenty of money there once, the landlord came to him one day and said, “look here, bright, i don’t want to hurt your feelings; but a lot of the gentlemen that come here don’t like to see you always hanging about the room. it annoys them. i’ll give you a sovereign to stop away.{206}”
the landlord meant it kindly, perhaps; but the young fellow told me that it hurt him dreadfully. of course it wasn’t nice for these people to see a seedy fellow, who had lost all his money through their bad example, hanging about the place. he didn’t take the sovereign, but he never went near the place again, and the people who knew him lost sight of him altogether.
he came down to our village and took a room, and tried to make a little money in a very curious way. he still thought that he was a good judge of racing, and knew a good deal about the turf. so, being desperate, he hit on a scheme.
he put an advertisement in a sporting paper, and called himself by a false name, and said that he was in a great stable secret, and for thirteen stamps he would send the absolute winner of a certain race. he told me that he had the letters sent to the post office, and he got over sixty answers, with thirteen stamps in them, and he sent in reply the name of the horse he thought was sure to win. unfortunately, the very day after he had sent his horse off it was scratched, which he told me meant being struck out of the list of runners, so that while his customers were reading his letter, which gave them the certain winner, they would see in the paper that the horse would not even run.
he said that settled him for giving tips from that address, and he didn’t know where else to go, for he had paid his landlady nearly all his money, and bought a pair of boots, which he wanted badly, and so he hadn’t even the money to pay his railway fare anywhere else, and he didn’t know whatever he should do, for he was now absolutely starving.
“why don’t you write to your father?” i said. “surely he wouldn’t let you starve.”
“no,” he said, “i will starve; but i won’t ask him for help again, after what he said to me. i will go back home when i am earning my own living and am independent, and not before.”
when harry came back, i told him about charley bright, and harry was as sorry as i was. he said that it was a very sad tale, and no doubt the young fellow had{207} had a lesson, and if he could give him a helping hand he would.
so it was settled that charley bright was to come and be our first billiard-marker. we couldn’t afford to give him much salary, of course, because really it was more for the convenience of the gentlemen staying in the house and visitors than anything, and we couldn’t hope to do very much at first. but he was quite satisfied, and, i think, what he looked forward to were the regular meals. you may be sure that when i sent up his dinner, i cut him as much meat as i could put on his plate, and i let him know if he wanted any more he was to send down for it.
i don’t think i had enjoyed my own dinner so much for many a long day, as i did the day that i knew that poor fellow was enjoying his upstairs. oh, he was so dreadfully thin and delicate-looking! he wore a light grey overcoat—a relic of his old racing days, he said—and it hung on him like a sack. he had no undercoat on; he had parted with that weeks before, he told me.
after he had been with us a week he was quite a changed man. he was the life and soul of the place, always merry, and always in high spirits. the customers liked him very much, and he really brought a lot of custom to the room, some of the young gentlemen from the houses round about coming to see him, and liking to talk to him, and hear his stories of what he had seen and done.
after he had been with us a fortnight he told us he was doing very well, as most of the gentlemen gave him something for himself. he said it made him feel queer at first to take a tip, like a servant, but after all he would be able to pay his landlady what he owed her, and so that helped him to swallow his pride.
we all got to like him very much indeed. he said harry and i were as good as a brother and sister to him—better than his own brothers and sisters had been—and he was so grateful to us, there was nothing he would not have done to show it.
of course, that graves, the farrier, had something to say about it, in his nasty vulgar way. one day we were talking about charley, and graves said to harry, “yes, h{208}e’s a handsome young fellow. if he’d a lame leg and a squint eye and red hair, i don’t suppose the missus would have taken him up so kindly.” harry gave graves a look and curled his lip. “graves,” he said, “i know you don’t mean to be objectionable, but shoeing horses is more in your line than people’s feelings. talk about what you understand!”
mr. wilkins had something to say too, only he wasn’t as coarse as graves. there is a little more refinement about a parish clerk than there is about a farrier. mr. wilkins only said that, of course, we knew our own business best; but he didn’t think a broken down betting-man was the nicest kind of person to keep on a well-conducted establishment.
i said, “mr. wilkins, when you have an hotel, you can manage it yourself and choose your own people; while the ‘stretford arms’ is ours, we’ll do the same thing.”
charley—mr. bright i suppose i ought to call him now—stayed with us for two months, and then one day he came to me, and he said, “mrs. beckett, i hope you won’t think me ungrateful, but i’m going to leave you.”
of course i said i was very sorry, and i asked him why.
then he told me that a young fellow who had known him in his good days had gone into business for himself, and had offered him a situation as clerk in his office if he would come.
of course i saw that was a more suitable situation for a young man of his position, and i said so. a few days afterwards he left us, and there wasn’t a soul but was sorry when he left; our housemaid, silly girl!—who, i do believe, had fallen in love with him—crying her eyes out.
i heard about him several times after that, because he wrote to harry, and said he was doing well, and was reconciled to his father again. and some weeks afterwards he came down to see us, and his handsome face was handsomer than ever. he was beautifully dressed, and looked what he was—a gentleman to the backbone.
he stayed and had tea with us, and told us that he had fallen in love with his friend’s sister, and they were going to be married, and he was to be taken into partnership.{209}
something like a friend that, was it not?
he told us that he was in business in the baltic.
“why,” said harry, “that’s in russia!”
but he explained it was the baltic—an exchange or something of the sort—in london, where business is done in grain, i think, and tallow, that comes from russia. at any rate, he was doing very well, and since then i have seen his marriage in the paper.
some day he has promised to bring his young wife down with him to stay at our hotel.
i am sure that we shall make them heartily welcome, and take care not to mention before her about his once having been our billiard-marker.
after he left, we had to look out for another marker, and we engaged a lad about fifteen. he was a wonderful player; but of all the forward, artful young demons that ever lived, i know there never was his equal. he was that crafty, you’d have thought he was fifty instead of fifteen. talk about old heads on young shoulders! i’ll just give you a specimen of what he could be up to. one day——
* * * * *
o, baby, whatever have you been doing? nurse, look at the child’s face! what does it mean? been at the coal-scuttle! why, i declare he’s sucking a piece of coal now! o, oo dirty, dirty boy—and oo nice tlene pinny only just put on! go and wash him, nurse, for goodness’ sake, before his father sees him, or i sha’n’t hear the last of it for a week.
