needful to particularise; his giving me the card
of the firm; and the plausible reason for which
he required change of the cheque (namely,
being unable to get the larger carriage he
wanted); and then adding to that, the similarity
of the handwriting; I had no doubt of the
genuineness of the draft. So when Mr.
Harris returned to the office, I began to
write out a cheque for the thirty pounds
change. I mentioned that my former drafts
were signed Jondermain and Co., adding, that
I had no doubt this one was correct enough.

"Oh yes," said Mr. Harris; "since his son
has been given over, Mr. Jondermain does
everything in his own name."

I was about filling up the cheque "to the
order of the firm," when my customer begged
me to insert his name instead, giving as a reason
that his account was debited by Messrs.
Jondermain with the total amount of the draft for
one hundred and thirty pounds when he
received it in the morning, and that consequently
my cheque would go into his own bank account.
That this was not unreasonable, those most
conversant with business transactions of the kind
will allow. Moreover, as he professed his
indifference, after all, about the matter, I did as
he requested, at the same time crossing the
cheque to make it payable only through a
banker.

With this last precaution, I was satisfied that,
even supposing anything could possibly be
wrong, there would still be plenty of time to
telegraph to Messrs. Jondermain, and get their
reply, before the bank opened in the morning,
when at worst I could stop my cheque. Accordingly,
I agreed to deliver the carriage on the
following day, and then had a quarter of an hour's
chat with Mr. Harris, whom I found remarkably
well informed on most topics. I smoked
one of his cigars—a fine-flavoured Regalia,
but expensive; for it cost me exactly thirty
pounds.

When he left, I telegraphed thus to his firm:

"To Messrs. Jondermain and Co.,
               Gracechurch-street, London.

"Received your cheque, a hundred and thirty
pounds, for carriage, from Alfred Harris, and
gave change thirty pounds. Reply if all right."

At nine o'clock that evening I got a reply
as follows:

"We know no such person as Alfred Harris.
Cheque forged."

I was about to take my hat to get a private
interview with the bank manager to stop my
cheque, when a neighbour, a jeweller in the
town, dropped in. I told him of the circumstance;
when my story came to the cheque, he
said:

"I see it all; you're done. I changed your
cheque this evening."

"You did!"

"I did. A gentleman called on me,
purchased a small diamond ring for five pounds ten,
and handed me your thirty-pound cheque in
payment. 'I suppose you know that name?'
he asked, with a smile. 'Oh yes,' said I, with
another smile; and without more ado I gave
him change. Wouldn't you have done the
same, though it was crossed?"

It only remains to offer an explanation of Mr.
Harris's manner of working this swindle.

I learned from Messrs. Jondermain, that when
I was doing business with them in 1861, they
employed an office-lad for a short time to copy
letters, and that, having found him out in
pilfering stamps, and having also had information
that he was a relative of the "Longs,"
they dismissed him. On turning to their letter-
book of the date in question, they found several
pages torn out; among them, the pages containing
copies of letters to me on the subject of
carriages. Supposing the boy to have stolen,
in addition, a few cards of the firm and a blank
cheque or two, it is easy to make out the sequel.
He takes them to his employers, the Longs,
who hand them to one of their staff to study.
Furnished with all the information required,
and a fac-simile of Messrs. Jondermain's signature,
"Mr. Harris" wanted nothing but an
opportunity to use his knowledge.

If it be asked why I did not endeavour to
trace Alfred Harris, the answer is, that I did
so the same night, and ineffectually.

OLD STORIES RE-TOLD.

A GAMBLER'S LIFE IN THE LAST CENTURY.

ON the 2nd of February, 1725, between
nine and ten o'clock at night, three gentlemen,
named Gower, Blunt, and Hawkins, left Will's
coffee-house in Covent-garden, and went to the
Castle Tavern in Drury-lane, with Major Oneby,
a well known gamester and duellist. Here Mr.
Rich, a friend of the three first-named gentlemen,
joined them over their Burgundy. The landlord
was obsequious and the drawers civil, for the
wine was flowing fast. Some of the party had
been to the playhouse together to see the new
tragedy of Hecuba.

The gambling scene in the Rake's Progress
shows us the sort of places that Major Oneby,
the professional gamester, haunted. Gamblers
were the curses of those days, the horror of
wives and mothers, the dread of fathers. They
were prayed against as men used to pray
against the Plague and the Fire. The green
cloth these men played upon soon led to the
green fields of Tyburn and the leafless tree.
Their cards were never without pin-marks on
the backs, their dice never fell even. They
were always in search of hearty country gentlemen,
wild Templars, or reckless City men.
They were the great lures to those wainscoted
rooms strewn with cards, where men, crazed
by their losses, raved unnoticed by the
victorious players; while, beside the caged-in fire,
moping wretches sat, heedless of the strong
waters brought them by the boy of the house,
and brooded over the night-ride to Hounslow or
Bagshot that should either recoup them for ever,
or undo them quite. Their tricks were the old
tricks of centuries before, founded on a deep