The Chequers | Page 8

into a rackety life at
once, for he had been hard held in by his father and mother, and his
mad activities craved for some vent. Had he been well guided he would
have become a useful citizen, but he was driven with a cruel bit, and
the reins were savagely jerked whenever he seemed restive. When he
once was free, he set off at a wild rate down the steep that leads to
perdition, and plenty of people cheered him as he flew on. It vexed me
often to see a fine, generous lad surrounded by spongers who rooked
him at every turn; but what could one do? The sponger has no mercy
and no manliness; he is always a person with violent appetites, and he
will procure excitement at the cost of his manliness and even of his
honesty. Bob had an open hand, and thought nothing of paying for
twenty brandies-and-sodas in the course of a morning. Twenty times
eightpence does not seem much, but if you keep up that average daily
for a year you have spent a fair income. No one ever tried to stay this
prodigal with a word of advice; indeed, in such cases advice is always
useless, for the very man whom you may seek to save is exceedingly
likely to swear, or even to strike at you. He thinks you impugn his
wisdom and sharpness, and he loves, above all things, to be regarded as
an acute fellow. A few favoured gentry almost lived on Bob, and scores
of outsiders had pretty pickings when he was in a lavish humour, which
was nearly every day. He betted on races, and lost; he played billiards,
and lost; he ran fox terriers, and lost; he played Nap for hours at a
stretch, and generally lost. He was only successful in games that
required strength and daring. Then, of course, he must needs emulate
the true sporting men in amorous achievements, and thus his income
bore the drain of some two or three little establishments. Bob would
always try to drink twice as much as any other man, and he treated

himself with the same liberality in the matter of ex-barmaids and
chorus girls. The Wicked Nobleman was a somewhat reckless character
in his way, but his feats would not bear comparison with those
performed by many and many a young fellow who belongs to the
wealthy middle class. Alas! for that splendid middle class which once
represented all that was sober and steady and trustworthy in Britain! Go
into any smart billiard-room nowadays, or make a round of the various
race meetings, and you will see something to make you sad. You see
one vast precession of Rakes making their mad Progress.
Bob was always kindly with me, as, indeed, he was with everybody.
The very bookmakers scarcely had the heart to offer him false prices,
and only the public-house spongers gave him no law. But, then the
sponger spares nobody. On this memorable morning the lad was rigged
in orthodox flannels, and he looked ruddy and well, but the ruddiness
was not quite of the right sort. He had begun drinking early, and his eye
had that incipient gloss which always appears about the time when the
one pleasurable moment of drunkenness has come. There is but one
pleasant moment in a drinking bout, and men make themselves stupid
by trying to make that fleeting moment permanent. Bob cried, "Come
on, sonny. Oh! what would I give for your thirst! Mine's gone! I'm
three parts copped already. Come on. Soda, is it?"
Then, with the usual crass idiocy of our tribe, we proceeded to swallow
oblivion by the tumbler until the afternoon was nearly gone. I felt damp
and cold and sticky, so I said I should scull home and change my
clothes. Then Darbishire yelled with spluttering cordiality, "Home! Not
if I know it! My togs just fit you. Go and have a bath, and we'll shove
you in the next room to mine. I'm on the rampage, and Joe Coney's
coming to-night. You've got nothing to do. Have it out with us. Blow
me! we'll have a week--we'll have a fortnight--we'll have a month."
I wish I had never taken part in that rampage.
Towards eight o'clock we both felt the false craving for food which is
produced by alcohol, and we clamoured for dinner. Dinner under such
circumstances produces a delusive feeling of sobriety, and men think
that they have killed the alcohol; but the stuff is still there, and every

molecule of it is ready, as it were, to explode and fly through the blood
when a fresh draught is added. At eleven o'clock we were at cards with
Mr. Coney. At one we went out to admire the moon,