The Chequers | Page 4

roll of his speech was very funny, and he poured forth his
resonant periods as though I had been standing at a distance of twenty
yards. As the gin stirred his sluggish blood he became more and more
declamatory, and when at last he fairly yelled, "I am a gambler. I could
not brook life if I had no excitement. It is my very blood. Yet, think not
my words are false as dicers' oaths," and waved his right hand with a
lordly gesture, I thought, "An old actor, for certain." So long as his
senses remained he talked shrewdly about betting, and his remarks
were free from the mingled superstition and rascality which make
ordinary racing talk so odious; but when he began to drink rapidly he
soon became violent, and finished by carrying on like a madman. He
shouted passages from "Hamlet" and "Coriolanus" with ear-splitting
fervour, and at last he drew a universal protest from the rest of our crew,
who are certainly not sensitive. Then his yell grew maudlin. "Why did
God make me thus? Why do I grunt and sweat under the burden of a
weary life? Give me, ah, give me the days that are gone!" Then he fell
alongside of the bench, and presently his long, gurgling snore sounded
fitfully. "Let him sweat there till closing time; he'll be quiet enough,"
said Mr. Landlord; and sure enough the orator lay until the hour had
struck. He shivered when he rose, and his knees were like to fail him.
"Heavens! what a mouth I've got!" he moaned, and I could see that the
deadly, bitter fur had already covered his palate. "Take a flask home,
Billy, and pull yourself together when you turn in." Billy grabbed
fiercely at the air. "These infernal flies have started early." The specks
were dancing before his eyes, and I fancy he had an ugly night before
him; but I didn't see him home.
THURSDAY.--I have found out a good deal about my stagy friend, and
we are quite confidential, especially late at night. He weeps plenteously
and recalls his own sins, but I think he is fairly truthful. A moving,
sordid history is his. Moralising is waste of time, but one might almost
moralise to the extent of boredom concerning the life of Billy Devine,
boozer, actor, betting-man.
Devine's peculiarly grandiose mode of telling his story was rather
effective at first hearing, but it would read like a burlesque, so I
translate his narrative into my own dialect. He was a quick, clever lad,

and the culture bestowed in a genteel academy was too narrow for him.
He read a great deal of romance, and still more poetry. He neglected his
school lessons, and he was dismissed after a few years as an incurable
scamp.
No sort of steady work suited Devine; his fatal lack of will was
supplemented by an eager vanity, and he was only happy when he was
attracting notice. Now that he is matured, he is gratified if he can make
drunken costermongers stare, so he must have been a very forward
creature when his conceit was in full blossom. He began by spouting
little recitations, and gradually practised until he could take his part in
amateur stage performances. As he put it, "I found that the majesty of
Coriolanus and the humour of Paul Pry were alike within my compass,
and I impartially included both these celebrated parts in my répertoire."
Nothing ever diverts a stage-struck youth from his fell purpose unless
he is absolutely pelted off the boards. Devine loathed his office; he
hated the sight of a business letter, and he finally appeared in a
wretched provincial booth, where he earned seven shillings per week in
good times: the restraints of respectability were to hamper him no more.
Through all his miserable wanderings I tracked him, for he kept
playbills, and each bill suggested some quaint or sordid memory. I felt
something like a lump in my throat when he said, "Now, dear friend, at
this place I played once the 'The Stranger' and 'The Idiot Witness,' and
for two days my comrade and I had nothing to eat. On one eventful
night we saw some refuse fish being wheeled off in a barrow, and we
begged leave to abstract a fish, which was--I say it without fear of
contradiction--the knobbiest and scaliest member of the finny tribe. Sir,
we tried to skin this animal and failed. Then we scraped him, and the
moving question arose, What about fire? Luckily the landlady had left a
lamp on the stairs. My inventive faculties were bestirred. The LAMP!
No sooner said than the fish was placed on the fire-shovel, and we then
took turns to move the shovel backwards and forwards over the lamp.