prefer a charge. A tall fresh-looking man of
fifty, a prosperous farmer, or country attorney
with a good seat across country; this
gentleman nervously twiddles two small bits of
pink pasteboard—not unlike the checks given
for readmission to the theatres—and with a
troubled expression, half indignation, half shame,
on his good-tempered florid face, explains that
one piece of pasteboard represents three pounds,
and the other two pounds ten. He staked these
sums upon the horse which came in first yesterday,
and on applying this morning for the money
he had consequently won, the list-keeper,
although then prosecuting his calling, had first
laughed in his face, and subsequently threatened
to "punch his head if he didn't hook it, and that
(adverb) quick too." Staggered and discomfited,
the luckless winner now came to the
police-office, with a vague hope, which his own
common sense obviously told him to be baseless,
that some steps might be taken to punish the
swindler, and indemnify him for his loss. Clearly
not a case for the police. Perhaps a summons
in the county court for the money borrowed
might answer the gentleman's purpose;
perhaps some means of exposing the fraudulent
list-keeper might occur to him; but his money
was gone for ever, and the best advice that
could be given him was, "Don't bet with
strangers in the street again."

We saw the "Welsher"—for, with dubious
compliment to the Principality, such is the slang
name for turf defaulters, who are at once petty
and fraudulent—a few minutes afterwards,
calmly pursuing his vocation amid a crowd of his
fellows. The victim was detailing his wrongs, and
showing his tickets as corroborative evidence,
within earshot of the swindler, who smoked a
cigar in the intervals of shouting, "I'll lay
four to one, bar one!" with imperturbable
calm. No one seemed surprised, or shocked,
or indignant. The farmer was stared at as he
told his little story, with a sheepish, wobegone
look on his jolly visage, which made it
wonderfully ludicrous; and then the starers elbowed
through the crowd to gaze on the Welsher, who
was decidedly the more popular of the two.
The mournful, "He won't even answer me, and
says he'll punch my head," was heard concurrently
with the jubilant, "I'll lay four to one;"
and three half-crowns went into the pocket of
the list-keeper for a fresh ticket, while within a
few paces the worthlessness of his promises was
being half timorously, half indignantly, proclaimed.

We are by this time in the thick of the
jostling and shouting crowd. A narrow street,
destitute of shops and dwelling-houses, the
huge brewery forming one side of it, and the
back of warerooms in Oxford-street filling up
the other, this place is not unlike a long and
narrow prison-yard. The height of the dull and
dirty brick walls, the absence of windows or
other signs of habitation, the circumscribed area,
and the elaborate lack of view, strengthen this
comparison. But the prisoners have run riot,
and discipline is at an end. "How do, Tom?"
remarks with careless dignity one of the two
detectives who kindly accompany me. "How
do you do, sir? Fine morning, isn't it?" replies
a fat coarse fellow, who looks like a fraudulent
pig-jobber in reduced circumstances. He is the
first sportsman we speak to, and after scanning
his villanous countenance, I learn with much
satisfaction that "he's just had six months for
theft." My companions are speedily recognised,
and the word is passed that some one must be
"wanted." This is uniformly effected by a whisper
from lips twisted as if practising ventriloquism,
and in such fashion that the sound proceeds in
an entirely opposite direction to that of the
speaker's cunning eyes and shifty face. The
list-keepers are ranged in an unbroken line from
one end of the street to the other. The lists
are mounted upon poles, the odds for each
forthcoming race being printed upon small white
cards, of the size and shape of photographic
cartes de visite. These are placed side by side,
the proprietor waiting for victims, and in most
instances his clerk or partner booking the bets
as soon as made. There are between seventy
and eighty of these lists, and I am assured that
it is only about ten per cent of this number
which are "square." In other words, nearly
all the vociferous blackguards I see pocketing
shillings, and half-crowns, and sovereigns,
are thieves, or skittle-sharpers, or three-card
men, or their associates. They may redeem
their pledges and pay the money they lose,
but only if it suits their pocket to do so;
and as to-day is the last great turf event of
the year, the probabilities of "bolting" are
greater than usual. Amid the crowd of dupes
and hangers-on, is a leaven of respectability.
Railway guards in uniform are "putting on"
small sums on commission for country clients.
That shiny-looking man, whose stiff black curls
protrude from under his wide-brimmed hat,
and whose rounded face—of a polished red
and yellow, like a Normandy pippin—speaks
somehow of the footlights, is one whose name
is familiar to us as the advertised "only successor
to Grimaldi." He is no list-keeper, but has
come to invest some of the proceeds of "Hot
Codlins" and "Tippety-Witchet" with the great
Mr. Gather, who is one of the few trustworthy
men here. "Good for thousands; has a house
in Great Bustle-street, and a tidy little farm in
the country; keeps two clerks to book his bets
for him, and is as safe as the Bank of England."
Such is the character I have of Mr. Gather, who,
as he leans against the wall, is beset by dozens
of people eagerly holding out gold and silver,
which he drops mechanically into the pocket
of his brown over-coat, saying, in a monotone,
"Fours—Harlequin—right." "Sevens—
Disappointment—right." A fresh-coloured rather
anxious-looking man of thirty, with a fair
moustache and smooth cheeks, Mr. Gather neither
smiles nor speaks further, save when the crowd
becomes more than usually oppressive, when
"Please keep back those who don't want to
bet," is extorted from him in a melancholy voice,
and with a weary air, as if even unbounded