She walked by Sarah's side, quite ignored, until she was accosted by Fred Parsons. They were passing by the mission tent, and Fred was calling upon the folk to leave the ways of Satan for those of Christ. Bill Evans was about to answer some brutal insult; but seeing that "the Christian" knew Esther he checked himself in time. Esther stopped to speak to Fred, and Bill seized the opportunity to slip away with Sarah.

"I didn't expect to meet you here, Esther."

"I'm here with my husband. He said a little pleasure——"

"This is not innocent pleasure, Esther; this is drunkenness and debauchery. I hope you'll never come again, unless you come with us," he said, pointing to some girls dressed as bookmakers, with Salvation and Perdition written on the satchels hung round their shoulders. They sought to persuade the passers-by to come into the tent. "We shall be very glad to see you," they said, and they distributed mock racing cards on which was inscribed news regarding certain imaginary racing. "The Paradise Plate, for all comers," "The Salvation Stakes, an Eternity of Happiness added."

Fred repeated his request. "I hope the next time you come here it will be with us; you'll strive to collect some of Christ's lost sheep."

"And my husband making a book yonder?"

An awkward silence intervened, and then he said—

"Won't you come in; service is going on?"

Esther followed him. In the tent there were some benches, and on a platform a grey-bearded man with an anxious face spoke of sinners and redemption. Suddenly a harmonium began to play a hymn, and, standing side by side, Esther and Fred sang together. Prayer was so inherent in her that she felt no sense of incongruity, and had she been questioned she would have answered that it did not matter where we are, or what we are doing, we can always have God in our hearts.

Fred followed her out.

"You have not forgotten your religion, I hope?"

"No, I never could forget that."

"Then why do I find you in such company? You don't come here like us to find sinners."

"I haven't forgotten God, but I must do my duty to my husband. It would be like setting myself up against my husband's business, and you don't think I ought to do that? A wife that brings discord into the family is not a good wife, so I've often heard."

"You always thought more of your husband than of Christ, Esther."

"Each one must follow Christ as best he can! It would be wrong of me to set myself against my husband."

"So he married you?" Fred answered bitterly.

"Yes. You thought he'd desert me a second time; but he's been the best of husbands."

"I place little reliance on those who are not with Christ. His love for you is not of the Spirit. Let us not speak of him. I loved you very deeply, Esther. I would have brought you to Christ.... But perhaps you'll come to see us sometimes."

"I do not forget Christ. He's always with me, and I believe you did care for me. I was sorry to break it off, you know I was. It was not my fault."

"Esther, it was I who loved you."

"You mustn't talk like that. I'm a married woman."

"I mean no harm, Esther. I was only thinking of the past."

"You must forget all that... Good-bye; I'm glad to have seen you, and that we said a prayer together."

Fred didn't answer, and Esther moved away, wondering where she should find Sarah.



XXXIII

The crowd shouted. She looked where the others looked, but saw only the burning blue with the white stand marked upon it. It was crowded like the deck of a sinking vessel, and Esther wondered at the excitement, the cause of which was hidden from her. She wandered to the edge of the crowd until she came to a chalk road where horses and mules were tethered. A little higher up she entered the crowd again, and came suddenly upon a switchback railway. Full of laughing and screaming girls, it bumped over a middle hill, and then rose slowly till it reached the last summit. It was shot back again into the midst of its fictitious perils, and this mock voyaging was accomplished to the sound of music from a puppet orchestra. Bells and drums, a fife and a triangle, cymbals clashed mechanically, and a little soldier beat the time. Further on, under a striped awning, were the wooden horses. They were arranged so well that they rocked to and fro, imitating as nearly as possible the action of real horses. Esther watched the riders. A blue skirt looked like a riding habit, and a girl in salmon pink leaned back in her saddle just as if she had been taught how to ride. A girl in a grey jacket encouraged a girl in white who rode a grey horse. But before Esther could make out for certain that the man in the blue Melton jacket was Bill Evans he had passed out of sight, and she had to wait until his horse came round the second time. At that moment she caught sight of the red poppies in Sarah's hat.

The horses began to slacken speed. They went slower and slower, then stopped altogether. The riders began to dismount and Esther pressed through the bystanders, fearing she would not be able to overtake her friends.

"Oh, here you are," said Sarah. "I thought I never should find you again. How hot it is!"

"Were you on in that ride? Let's have another, all three of us. These three horses."

Round and round they went, their steeds bobbing nobly up and down to the sound of fifes, drums and cymbals. They passed the winning-post many times; they had to pass it five times, and the horse that stopped nearest it won the prize. A long-drawn-out murmur, continuous as the sea, swelled up from the course—a murmur which at last passed into words: "Here they come; blue wins, the favourite's beat." Esther paid little attention to these cries; she did not understand them; they reached her indistinctly and soon died away, absorbed in the strident music that accompanied the circling horses. These had now begun to slacken speed.... They went slower and slower. Sarah and Bill, who rode side by side, seemed like winning, but at the last moment they glided by the winning-post. Esther's steed stopped in time, and she was told to choose a china mug from a great heap.

"You've all the luck to-day," said Bill. "Hayfield, who was backed all the winter, broke down a month ago.... 2 to 1 against Fly-leaf, 4 to 1 against Signet-ring, 4 to 1 against Dewberry, 10 to 1 against Vanguard, the winner at 50 to 1 offered. Your husband must have won a little fortune. Never was there such a day for the bookies."

Esther said she was very glad, and was undecided which mug she should choose. At last she saw one on which "Jack" was written in gold letters. They then visited the peep-shows, and especially liked St. James's Park with the Horse Guards out on parade; the Spanish bull-fight did not stir them, and Sarah couldn't find a single young man to her taste in the House of Commons. Among the performing birds they liked best a canary that climbed a ladder. Bill was attracted by the American strength-testers, and he gave an exhibition of his muscle, to Sarah's very great admiration. They all had some shies at cocoa-nuts, and passed by J. Bilton's great bowling saloon without visiting it. Once more the air was rent with the cries of "Here they come! Here they come!" Even the 'commodation men left their canvas shelters and pressed forward inquiring which had won. A moment after a score of pigeons floated and flew through the blue air and then departed in different directions, some making straight for London, others for the blue mysterious evening that had risen about the Downs—the sun-baked Downs strewn with waste paper and covered by tipsy men and women, a screaming and disordered animality.

"Well, so you've come back at last," said William. "The favourite was beaten. I suppose you know that a rank outsider won. But what about this gentleman?"

"Met these 'ere ladies on the 'ill an' been showing them over the course. No offence, I hope, guv'nor?"

William did not answer, and Bill took leave of Sarah in a manner that told Esther that they had arranged to meet again.

"Where did you pick up that bloke?"

"He came up and spoke to us, and Esther stopped to speak to the parson."

"To the parson. What do you mean?"

The circumstance was explained, and William asked them what they thought of the racing.

"We didn't see no racing," said Sarah; "we was on the 'ill on the wooden 'orses. Esther's 'orse won. She got a mug; show the mug, Esther."

"So you saw no Derby after all?" said William.

"Saw no racin'!" said his neighbour; "ain't she won the cup?"

The joke was lost on the women, who only perceived that they were being laughed at.

"Come up here, Esther," said William; "stand on my box. The 'orses are just going up the course for the preliminary canter. And you, Sarah, take Teddy's place. Teddy, get down, and let the lady up."

"Yes, guv'nor. Come up 'ere, ma'am."

"And is those the 'orses?" said Sarah. "They do seem small."

The ringmen roared. "Not up to those on the 'ill, ma'am," said one. "Not such beautiful goers," said another.

There were two or three false starts, and then, looking through a multitude of hats, Esther saw five or six thin greyhound-looking horses. They passed like shadows, flitted by; and she was sorry for the poor chestnut that trotted in among the crowd.

This was the last race. Once more the favourite had been beaten; there were no bets to pay, and the bookmakers began to prepare for departure. It was the poor little clerks who were charged with the luggage. Teddy did not seem as if he would ever reach the top of the hill. With Esther and Sarah on either arm, William struggled with the crowd. It was hard to get through the block of carriages. Everywhere horses waited with their harness on, and Sarah was afraid of being bitten or kicked. A young aristocrat cursed them from the box-seat, and the groom blew a blast as the drag rolled away. It was like the instinct of departure which takes a vast herd at a certain moment. The great landscape, half country, half suburb, glinted beneath the rays of a setting sun; and through the white dust, and the drought of the warm roads, the brakes and carriages and every crazy vehicle rolled towards London; orange-sellers, tract-sellers, thieves, vagrants, gipsies, made for their various quarters—roadside inns, outhouses, hayricks, hedges, or the railway station. Down the long hill the vast crowd made its way, humble pedestrians and carriage folk, all together, as far as the cross-roads. At the "Spread Eagle" there would be stoppage for a parting drink, there the bookmakers would change their clothes, and there division would happen in the crowd—half for the railway station, half for the London road. It was there that the traditional sports of the road began. A drag, with a band of exquisites armed with pea-shooters, peppering on costers who were getting angry, and threatening to drive over the leaders. A brake with two poles erected, and hanging on a string quite a line of miniature chamber-pots. A horse, with his fore-legs clothed in a pair of lady's drawers. Naturally unconscious of the garment, the horse stepped along so absurdly that Esther and Sarah thought they'd choke with laughter.

At the station William halloaed to old John, whom he caught sight of on the platform. He had backed the winner—forty to one about Sultan. It was Ketley who had persuaded him to risk half a sovereign on the horse. Ketley was at the Derby; he had met him on the course, and Ketley had told him a wonderful story about a packet of Turkish Delight. The omen had come right this time, and Journeyman took a back seat.

"Say what you like," said William, "it is damned strange; and if anyone did find the way of reading them omens there would be an end of us bookmakers." He was only half in earnest, but he regretted he had not met Ketley. If he had only had a fiver on the horse—200 to 5!

They met Ketley at Waterloo, and every one wanted to hear from his own lips the story of the packet of Turkish Delight. So William proposed they should all come up to the "King's Head" for a drink. The omnibus took them as far as Piccadilly Circus; and there the weight of his satchel tempted William to invite them to dinner, regardless of expense.

"Which is the best dinner here?" he asked the commissionaire.

"The East Room is reckoned the best, sir."

The fashion of the shaded candles and the little tables, and the beauty of an open evening bodice and the black and white elegance of the young men at dinner, took the servants by surprise, and made them feel that they were out of place in such surroundings. Old John looked like picking up a napkin and asking at the nearest table if anything was wanted. Ketley proposed the grill room, but William, who had had a glass more than was good for him, declared that he didn't care a damn—that he could buy up the whole blooming show. The head-waiter suggested a private room; it was abruptly declined, and William took up the menu. "Bisque Soup, what's that? You ought to know, John." John shook his head. "Ris de veau! That reminds me of when——" William stopped and looked round to see if his former wife was in the room. Finally, the head-waiter was cautioned to send them up the best dinner in the place. Allusion was made to the dust and heat. Journeyman suggested a sluice, and they inquired their way to the lavatories. Esther and Sarah were away longer than the men, and stood dismayed at the top of the room till William called for them. The other guests seemed a little terrified, and the head-waiter, to reassure them, mentioned that it was Derby Day.

William had ordered champagne, but it had not proved to any one's taste except, perhaps, to Sarah, whom it rendered unduly hilarious; nor did the delicate food afford much satisfaction; the servants played with it, and left it on their plates; and it was not until William ordered up the saddle of mutton and carved it himself that the dinner began to take hold of the company. Esther and Sarah enjoyed the ices, and the men stuck to the cheese, a fine Stilton, which was much appreciated. Coffee no one cared for, and the little glasses of brandy only served to augment the general tipsiness. William hiccupped out an order for a bottle of Jamieson eight-year-old; but pipes were not allowed, and cigars were voted tedious, so they adjourned to the bar, where they were free to get as drunk as they pleased. William said, "Now let's 'ear the blo——the bloody omen that put ye on to Sultan—that blood—packet of Turkish Delight."

"Most extra—most extraordinary thing I ever heard in my life, so yer 'ere?" said Ketley, staring at William and trying to see him distinctly.

William nodded. "How was it? We want to 'ear all about it. Do hold yer tongue, Sarah. I beg pardon, Ketley is go—going to tell us about the bloody omen. Thought you'd like to he—ar, old girl."

Allusion was made to a little girl coming home from school, and a piece of paper on the pavement. But Ketley could not concentrate his thoughts on the main lines of the story, and it was lost in various dissertations. But the company was none the less pleased with it, and willingly declared that bookmaking was only a game for mugs. Get on a winner at forty to one, and you could make as much in one bet as a poor devil of a bookie could in six months, fagging from race-course to race-course. They drank, argued, and quarrelled, until Esther noticed that Sarah was looking very pale. Old John was quite helpless; Journeyman, who seemed to know what he was doing, very kindly promised to look after him.

Ketley assured the commissionaire that he was not drunk; and when they got outside Sarah felt obliged to step aside; she came back, saying that she felt a little better.

They stood on the pavement's edge, a little puzzled by the brilliancy of the moonlight. And the three men who followed out of the bar-room were agreed regarding the worthlessness of life. One said, "I don't think much of it; all I live for is beer and women." The phrase caught on William's ear, and he said, "Quite right, old mate," and he held out his hand to Bill Evans. "Beer and women, it always comes round to that in the end, but we mustn't let them hear us say it." The men shook hands, and Bill promised to see Sarah safely home. Esther tried to interpose, but William could not be made to understand, and Sarah and Bill drove away together in a hansom. Sarah dozed off immediately on his shoulder, and it was difficult to awaken her when the cab stopped before a house whose respectability took Bill by surprise.



XXXIV

Things went well enough as long as her savings lasted. When her money was gone Bill returned to the race-course in the hope of doing a bit of welshing. Soon after he was "wanted" by the police; they escaped to Belgium, and it devolved on Sarah to support him. The hue and cry over, they came back to London.

She had been sitting up for him; he had come home exasperated and disappointed. A row soon began; and she thought that he would strike her. But he refrained, for fear, perhaps, of the other lodgers. He took her instead by the arm, dragged her down the broken staircase, and pushed her into the court. She heard the retreating footsteps, and saw a cat slink through a grating, and she wished that she too could escape from the light into the dark.

A few belated women still lingered in the Strand, and the city stood up like a prison, hard and stark in the cold, penetrating light of morning. She sat upon a pillar's base, her eyes turned towards the cabmen's shelter. The horses munched in their nose-bags, and the pigeons came down from their roosts. She was dressed in an old black dress, her hands lay upon her knees, and the pose expressed so perfectly the despair and wretchedness in her soul that a young man in evening clothes, who had looked sharply at her as he passed, turned and came back to her, and he asked her if he could assist her. She answered, "Thank you, sir." He slipped a shilling into her hand. She was too broken-hearted to look up in his face, and he walked away wondering what was her story. The disordered red hair, the thin, freckled face, were expressive, and so too was the movement of her body when she got up and walked, not knowing and not caring where she was going. There was sensation of the river in her thoughts; the river drew her, and she indistinctly remembered that she would find relief there if she chose to accept that relief. The water was blue beneath the sunrise, and it seemed to offer to end her life's trouble. She could not go on living. She could not bear with her life any longer, and yet she knew that she would not drown herself that morning. There was not enough will in her to drown herself. She was merely half dead with grief. He had turned her out, he had said that he never wanted to see her again, but that was because he had been unlucky. She ought to have gone to bed and not waited up for him; he didn't know what he was doing; so long as he didn't care for another woman there was hope that he might come back to her. The spare trees rustled their leaves in the bright dawn air, and she sat down on a bench and watched the lamps going out, and the river changing from blue to brown. Hours passed, and the same thoughts came and went, until with sheer weariness of thinking she fell asleep.

She was awakened by the policeman, and she once more continued her walk. The omnibuses had begun; women were coming from market with baskets on their arms; and she wondered if their lovers and husbands were unfaithful to them, if they would be received with blows or knocks when they returned. Her slightest mistakes had often, it seemed, merited a blow; and God knows she had striven to pick out the piece of bacon that she thought he would like, and it was not her fault that she couldn't get any money nowhere. Why was he cruel to her? He never would find another woman to care for him more than she did.... Esther had a good husband, Esther had always been lucky. Two hours more to wait, and she felt so tired, so tired. The milk-women were calling their ware—those lusty short-skirted women that bring an air of country into the meanest alley. She sat down on a doorstep and looked on the empty Haymarket, vaguely conscious of the low vice which still lingered there though the morning was advancing. She turned up Shaftesbury Avenue, and from the beginning of Dean Street she watched to see if the shutters were yet down. She thought they were, and then saw that she was mistaken. There was nothing to do but to wait, and on the steps of the Royalty Theatre she waited. The sun was shining, and she watched the cab horses, until the potboy came through and began cleaning the street lamp. She didn't care to ask him any questions; dressed as she was, he might answer her rudely. She wanted to see Esther first. Esther would pity and help her. So she did not go directly to the "King's Head," but went up the street a little way and came back. The boy's back was turned to her; she peeped through the doors. There was no one in the bar, she must go back to the steps of the theatre. A number of children were playing there, and they did not make way for her to sit down. She was too weary to argue the point, and walked up and down the street. When she looked through the doors a second time Esther was in the bar.

"Is that you, Sarah?"

"Yes, it is me."

"Then come in.... How is it that we've not seen you all this time? What's the matter?"

"I've been out all night. Bill put me out of doors this morning, and I've been walking about ever since."

"Bill put you out of doors? I don't understand."

"You know Bill Evans, the man we met on the race-course, the day we went to the Derby.... It began there. He took me home after your dinner at the 'Criterion.'... It has been going on ever since."

"Good Lord! ...Tell me about it."

Leaning against the partition that separated the bars, Sarah told how she had left her home and gone to live with him.

"We got on pretty well at first, but the police was after him, and we made off to Belgium. There we was very hard up, and I had to go out on the streets."

"He made you do that?"

"He couldn't starve, could he?"

The women looked at each other, and then Sarah continued her story. She told how they had come to London, penniless. "I think he wants to turn honest," she said, "but luck's been dead against him.... It's that difficult for one like him, and he's been in work, but he can't stick to it; and now I don't know what he's doing—no good, I fancy. Last night I got anxious and couldn't sleep, so I sat up. It was about two when he came in. We had a row and he dragged me downstairs and he put me out. He said he never wanted to see my ugly face again. I don't think I'm as bad as that; I've led a hard life, and am not what I used to be, but it was he who made me what I am. Oh, it don't matter now, it can't be helped, it is all over with me. I don't care what becomes of me, only I thought I'd like to come and tell you. We was always friends."

"You mustn't give way like that, old girl. You must keep yer pecker up. You're dead beat.... You've been walking about all night, no wonder. You must come and have some breakfast with us."

"I should like a cup of tea, Esther. I never touches spirits now. I got over that."

"Come into the parlour. You'll be better when you've had breakfast. We'll see what we can do for you."

"Oh, Esther, not a word of what I've been telling you to your husband. I don't want to get Bill into trouble. He'd kill me. Promise me not to mention a word of it. I oughtn't to have told you. I was so tired that I didn't know what I was saying."

There was plenty to eat—fried fish, a nice piece of steak, tea and coffee. "You seem to live pretty well," said Sarah, "It must be nice to have a servant of one's own. I suppose you're doing pretty well here."

"Yes, pretty well, if it wasn't for William's health."

"What's the matter? Ain't he well?"

"He's been very poorly lately. It's very trying work going about from race-course to race-course, standing in the mud and wet all day long.... He caught a bad cold last winter and was laid up with inflammation of the lungs, and I don't think he ever quite got over it."

"Don't he go no more to race meetings?"

"He hasn't been to a race meeting since the beginning of the winter. It was one of them nasty steeplechase meetings that laid him up."

"Do 'e drink?"

"He's never drunk, but he takes too much. Spirits don't suit him. He thought he could do what he liked, great strong-built fellow that he is, but he's found out his mistake."

"He does his betting in London now, I suppose?"

"Yes," said Esther, hesitating—"when he has any to do. I want him to give it up; but trade is bad in this neighbourhood, leastways, with us, and he don't think we could do without it."

"It's very hard to keep it dark; some one's sure to crab it and bring the police down on you."

Esther did not answer; the conversation paused, and William entered. "Halloa! is that you, Sarah? We didn't know what had become of you all this time." He noticed that she looked like one in trouble, and was very poorly dressed. She noticed that his cheeks were thinner than they used to be, and that his broad chest had sunk, and that there seemed to be strangely little space between it and his back. Then in brief phrases, interrupting each other frequently, the women told the story. William said—

"I knew he was a bad lot. I never liked to see him inside my bar."

"I thought," said Esther, "that Sarah might remain here for a time."

"I can't have that fellow coming round my place."

"There's no fear of his coming after me. He don't want to see my ugly face again. Well, let him try to find some one who will do for him all I have done."

"Until she gets a situation," said Esther. "I think that'll be the best, for you to stop here until you get a situation."

"And what about a character?"

"You needn't say much about what you've been doing this last twelve months; if many questions are asked, you can say you've been stopping with us. But you mustn't see that brute again. If he ever comes into that 'ere bar, I'll give him a piece of my mind. I'd give him more than a piece of my mind if I was the man I was a twelvemonth ago." William coughed, and Esther looked at him anxiously.



XXXV

Lacking a parlour on the ground floor for the use of special customers, William had arranged a room upstairs where they could smoke and drink. There were tables in front of the windows and chairs against the walls, and in the middle of the room a bagatelle board.

When William left off going to race-courses he had intended to refrain from taking money across the bar and to do all his betting business in this room.

He thought that it would be safer. But as his customers multiplied he found that he could not ask them all upstairs; it attracted more attention than to take the money quietly across the bar. Nevertheless the room upstairs had proved a success. A man spent more money if he had a room where he could sit quietly among his friends than he would seated on a high stool in a public bar, jostled and pushed about; so it had come to be considered a sort of club room; and a large part of the neighbourhood came there to read the papers, to hear and discuss the news. And specially useful it had proved to Journeyman and Stack. Neither was now in employment; they were now professional backers; and from daylight to dark they wandered from public-house to public-house, from tobacconist to barber's shop, in the search of tips, on the quest of stable information regarding the health of the horses and their trials. But the room upstairs at the "King's Head" was the centre of their operations. Stack was the indefatigable tipster, Journeyman was the scientific student of public form. His memory was prodigious, and it enabled him to note an advantage in the weights which would escape an ordinary observer. He often picked out horses which, if they did not actually win, nearly always stood at a short price in the betting before the race.

The "King's Head" was crowded during the dinner-hour. Barbers and their assistants, cabmen, scene-shifters, if there was an afternoon performance at the theatre, servants out of situation and servants escaped from their service for an hour, petty shopkeepers, the many who grow weary of the scant livelihood that work brings them, came there. Eleven o'clock! In another hour the bar and the room upstairs would be crowded. At present the room was empty, and Journeyman had taken advantage of the quiet time to do a bit of work at his handicap. All the racing of the last three years lay within his mind's range; he recalled at will every trifling selling race; hardly ever was he obliged to refer to the Racing Calendar. Wanderer had beaten Brick at ten pounds. Snow Queen had beaten Shoemaker at four pounds, and Shoemaker had beaten Wanderer at seven pounds. The problem was further complicated by the suspicion that Brick could get a distance of ground better than Snow Queen. Journeyman was undecided. He stroked his short brown moustache with his thin, hairy hand, and gnawed the end of his pen. In this moment of barren reflection Stack came into the room.

"Still at yer 'andicap, I see," said Stack. "How does it work out?"

"Pretty well," said Journeyman. "But I don't think it will be one of my best; there is some pretty hard nuts to crack."

"Which are they?" said Stack. Journeyman brightened up, and he proceeded to lay before Stack's intelligence what he termed a "knotty point in collateral running."

Stack listened with attention, and thus encouraged, Journeyman proceeded to point out certain distributions of weight which he said seemed to him difficult to beat.

"Anyone what knows the running would say there wasn't a pin to choose between them at the weights. If this was the real 'andicap, I'd bet drinks all around that fifteen of these twenty would accept. And that's more than anyone will be able to say for Courtney's 'andicap. The weights will be out to-morrow; we shall see."

"What do you say to 'alf a pint," said Stack, "and we'll go steadily through your 'andicap? You've nothing to do for the next 'alf-hour."

Journeyman's dingy face lit up. When the potboy appeared in answer to the bell he was told to bring up two half-pints, and Journeyman read out the weights. Every now and then he stopped to explain his reasons for what might seem to be superficial, an unmerited severity, or an undue leniency. It was not usual for Journeyman to meet with so sympathetic a listener; he had often been made to feel that his handicapping was unnecessary, and he now noticed, and with much pleasure, that Stack's attention seemed to increase rather than to diminish as he approached the end. When he had finished Stack said, "I see you've given six-seven to Ben Jonson. Tell me why you did that?"

"He was a good 'orse once; he's broken down and aged; he can't be trained, so six-seven seems just the kind of weight to throw him in at. You couldn't give him less, however old and broken down he may be. He was a good horse when he won the Great Ebor Grand Cup."

"Do you think if they brought him to the post as fit and well as he was the day he won the Ebor that he'd win?"

"What, fit and well as he was when he won the Great Ebor, and with six-seven on his back? He'd walk away with it."

"You don't think any of the three-year-olds would have a chance with him? A Derby winner with seven stone on his back might beat him."

"Yes, but nothing short of that. Even then old Ben would make a race of it. A nailing good horse once. A little brown horse about fifteen two, as compact as a leg of Welsh mutton.... But there's no use in thinking of him. They've been trying for years to train him. Didn't they used to get the flesh off him in a Turkish bath? That was Fulton's notion. He used to say that it didn't matter 'ow you got the flesh off so long as you got it off. Every pound of flesh off the lungs is so much wind, he used to say. But the Turkish bath trained horses came to the post limp as old rags. If a 'orse 'asn't the legs you can't train him. Every pound of flesh yer take off must put a pound 'o 'ealth on. They'll do no good with old Ben, unless they've found out a way of growing on him a pair of new forelegs. The old ones won't do for my money."

"But do you think that Courtney will take the same view of his capabilities as you do—do you think he'll let him off as easily as you have?"

"He can't give him much more.... The 'orse is bound to get in at seven stone, rather under than over."

"I'm glad to 'ear yer say so, for I know you've a headpiece, and 'as all the running in there." Stack tapped his forehead. "Now, I'd like to ask you if there's any three-year-olds that would be likely to interfere with him?"

"Derby and Leger winners will get from eight stone to eight stone ten, and three-year-olds ain't no good over the Cesarewitch course with more than eight on their backs."

The conversation paused. Surprised at Stack's silence, Journeyman said—

"Is there anything up? Have you heard anything particular about old Ben?"

Stack bent forward. "Yes, I've heard something, and I'm making inquiries."

"How did you hear it?"

Stack drew his chair a little closer. "I've been up at Chalk Farm, the 'Yarborough Arms'; you know, where the 'buses stop. Bob Barrett does a deal of business up there. He pays the landlord's rent for the use of the bar—Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays is his days. Charley Grove bets there Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, but it is Bob that does the biggest part of the business. They say he's taken as much as twenty pounds in a morning. You know Bob, a great big man, eighteen stun if he's an ounce. He's a warm 'un, can put it on thick."

"I know him; he do tell fine stories about the girls; he has the pick of the neighbourhood, wears a low hat, no higher than that, with a big brim. I know him. I've heard that he 'as moved up that way. Used at one time to keep a tobacconist's shop in Great Portland Street."

"That's him," said Stack. "I thought you'd heard of him."

"There ain't many about that I've not heard of. Not that I likes the man much. There was a girl I knew—she wouldn't hear his name mentioned. But he lays fair prices, and does, I believe, a big trade."

"'As a nice 'ome at Brixton, keeps a trap; his wife as pretty a woman as you could wish to lay eyes on. I've seen her with him at Kempton."

"You was up there this morning?"

"Yes."

"It wasn't Bob Barrett that gave you the tip?"

"Not likely." The men laughed, and then Stack said—

"You know Bill Evans? You've seen him here, always wore a blue Melton jacket and billycock hat; a dark, stout, good-looking fellow; generally had something to sell, or pawn-tickets that he would part with for a trifle."

"Yes, I know the fellow. We met him down at Epsom one Derby Day. Sarah Tucker, a friend of the missis, was dead gone on him."

"Yes, she went to live with him. There was a row, and now, I believe, they're together again; they was seen out walking. They're friends, anyhow. Bill has been away all the summer, tramping. A bad lot, but one of them sort often hears of a good thing."

"So it was from Bill Evans that you heard it."

"Yes, it was from Bill. He has just come up from Eastbourne, where he 'as been about on the Downs a great deal. I don't know if it was the horses he was after, but in the course of his proceedings he heard from a shepherd that Ben Jonson was doing seven hours' walking exercise a day. This seemed to have fetched Bill a bit. Seven hours a day walking exercise do seem a bit odd, and being at the same time after one of the servants in the training stable—as pretty a bit of goods as he ever set eyes on, so Bill says—he thought he'd make an inquiry or two about all this walking exercise. One of the lads in the stable is after the girl, too, so Bill found out very soon all he wanted to know. As you says, the 'orse is dicky on 'is forelegs, that is the reason of all the walking exercise."

"And they thinks they can bring him fit to the post and win the Cesarewitch with him by walking him all day?"

"I don't say they don't gallop him at all; they do gallop him, but not as much as if his legs was all right."

"That won't do. I don't believe in a 'orse winning the Cesarewitch that ain't got four sound legs, and old Ben ain't got more than two."

"He's had a long rest, and they say he is sounder than ever he was since he won the Great Ebor. They don't say he'd stand no galloping, but they don't want to gallop him more than's absolutely necessary on account of the suspensory ligament; it ain't the back sinew, but the suspensory ligament. Their theory is this, that it don't so much matter about bringing him quite fit to the post, for he's sure to stay the course; he'd do that three times over. What they say is this, that if he gets in with seven stone, and we brings him well and three parts trained, there ain't no 'orse in England that can stand up before him. They've got another in the race, Laurel Leaf, to make the running for him; it can't be too strong for old Ben. You say to yourself that he may get let off with six-seven. If he do there'll be tons of money on him. He'll be backed at the post at five to one. Before the weights come out they'll lay a hundred to one on the field in any of the big clubs. I wouldn't mind putting a quid on him if you'll join me."

"Better wait until the weights come out," said Journeyman, "for if it happened to come to Courtney's ears that old Ben could be trained he'd clap seven-ten on him without a moment's hesitation."

"You think so?" said Stack.

"I do," said Journeyman.

"But you agree with me that if he got let off with anything less than seven stone, and be brought fit, or thereabouts, to the post, that the race is a moral certainty for him?"

"A thousand to a brass farthing."

"Mind, not a word."

"Is it likely?"

The conversation paused a moment, and Journeyman said, "You've not seen my 'andicap for the Cambridgeshire. I wonder what you'd think of that?" Stack said he would be glad to see it another time, and suggested that they go downstairs.

"I'm afraid the police is in," said Stack, when he opened the door.

"Then we'd better stop where we are; I don't want to be took to the station."

They listened for some moments, holding the door ajar.

"It ain't the police," said Stack, "but a row about some bet. Latch had better be careful."

The cause of the uproar was a tall young English workman, whose beard was pale gold, and whose teeth were white. He wore a rough handkerchief tied round his handsome throat. His eyes were glassy with drink, and his comrades strove to quieten him.

"Leave me alone," he exclaimed; "the bet was ten half-crowns to one. I won't stand being welshed."

William's face flushed up. "Welshed!" he said. "No one speaks in this bar of welshing." He would have sprung over the counter, but Esther held him back.

"I know what I'm talking about; you let me alone," said the young workman, and he struggled out of the hands of his friends. "The bet was ten half-crowns to one."

"Don't mind what he says, guv'nor."

"Don't mind what I says!" For a moment it seemed as if the friends were about to come to blows, but the young man's perceptions suddenly clouded, and he said, "In this blo-ody bar last Monday... horse backed in Tattersall's at twelve to one taken and offered."

"He don't know what he's talking about; but no one must accuse me of welshing in this 'ere bar."

"No offence, guv'nor; mistakes will occur."

William could not help laughing, and he sent Teddy upstairs for Monday's paper. He pointed out that eight to one was being asked for about the horse on Monday afternoon at Tattersall's. The stage door-keeper and a scene-shifter had just come over from the theatre, and had managed to force their way into the jug and bottle entrance. Esther and Charles had been selling beer and spirits as fast as they could draw it, but the disputed bet had caused the company to forget their glasses.

"Just one more drink," said the young man. "Take the ten half-crowns out in drinks, guv'nor, that's good enough. What do you say, guv'nor?"

"What, ten half-crowns?" William answered angrily. "Haven't I shown you that the 'orse was backed at Tattersall's the day you made the bet at eight to one?"

"Ten to one, guv'nor."

"I've not time to go on talking.... You're interfering with my business. You must get out of my bar."

"Who'll put me out?"

"Charles, go and fetch a policeman."

At the word "policeman" the young man seemed to recover his wits somewhat, and he answered, "You'll bring in no bloody policeman. Fetch a policeman! and what about your blooming betting—what will become of it?" William looked round to see if there was any in the bar whom he could not trust. He knew everyone present, and believed he could trust them all. There was but one thing to do, and that was to put on a bold face and trust to luck. "Now out you go," he said, springing over the counter, "and never you set your face inside my bar again." Charles followed the guv'nor over the counter like lightning, and the drunkard was forced into the street. "He don't mean no 'arm," said one of the friends; "he'll come round to-morrow and apologise for what he's said."

"I don't want his apology," said William. "No one shall call me a welsher in my bar.... Take your friend away, and never let me see him in my bar again."

Suddenly William turned very pale. He was seized with a fit of coughing, and this great strong man leaned over the counter very weak indeed. Esther led him into the parlour, leaving Charles to attend to the customers. His hand trembled like a leaf, and she sat by his side holding it. Mr. Blamy came in to ask if he should lay one of the young gentlemen from the tutor's thirty shillings to ten against the favourite. Esther said that William could attend to no more customers that day. Mr. Blamy returned ten minutes after to say that there was quite a number of people in the bar; should he refuse to take their money?

"Do you know them all?" said William.

"I think so, guv'nor."

"Be careful to bet with no one you don't know; but I'm so bad I can hardly speak."

"Much better send them away," said Esther.

"Then they'll go somewhere else."

"It won't matter; they'll come back to where they're sure of their money."

"I'm not so sure of that," William answered, feebly. "I think it will be all right, Teddy; you'll be very careful."

"Yes, guv'nor, I'll keep down the price."



XXXVI

One afternoon Fred Parsons came into the bar of the "King's Head." He wore the cap and jersey of the Salvation Army; he was now Captain Parsons. The bars were empty. It was a time when business was slackest. The morning's betting was over; the crowd had dispersed, and would not collect again until the Evening Standard had come in. William had gone for a walk. Esther and the potboy were alone in the house. The potman was at work in the backyard, Esther was sewing in the parlour. Hearing steps, she went into the bar. Fred looked at her abashed, he was a little perplexed. He said—

"Is your husband in? I should like to speak to him."

"No, my husband is out. I don't expect him back for an hour or so. Can I give him any message?"

She was on the point of asking him how he was. But there was something so harsh and formal in his tone and manner that she refrained. But the idea in her mind must have expressed itself in her face, for suddenly his manner softened. He drew a deep breath, and passed his hand across his forehead. Then, putting aside the involuntary thought, he said—

"Perhaps it will come through you as well as any other way. I had intended to speak to him, but I can explain the matter better to you.... It is about the betting that is being carried on here. We mean to put a stop to it. That's what I came to tell him. It must be put a stop to. No right-minded person—it cannot be allowed to go on."

Esther said nothing; not a change of expression came upon her grave face. Fred was agitated. The words stuck in his throat, and his hands were restless. Esther raised her calm eyes, and looked at him. His eyes were pale, restless eyes.

"I've come to warn you," he said, "that the law will be set in motion.... It is very painful for me, but something must be done. The whole neighbourhood is devoured by it." Esther did not answer, and he said, "Why don't you answer, Esther?"

"What is there for me to answer? You tell me that you are going to get up a prosecution against us. I can't prevent you. I'll tell my husband what you say."

"This is a very serious matter, Esther." He had come into command of his voice, and he spoke with earnest determination. "If we get a conviction against you for keeping a betting-house, you will not only be heavily fined, but you will also lose your licence. All we ask is that the betting shall cease. No," he said, interrupting, "don't deny anything; it is quite useless, we know everything. The whole neighbourhood is demoralized by this betting; nothing is thought of but tips; the day's racing—that is all they think about—the evening papers, and the latest information. You do not know what harm you're doing. Every day we hear of some new misfortune—a home broken up, the mother in the workhouse, the daughter on the streets, the father in prison, and all on account of this betting. Oh, Esther, it is horrible; think of the harm you're doing."

Fred Parsons' high, round forehead, his weak eyes, his whole face, was expressive of fear and hatred of the evil which a falsetto voice denounced with much energy.

Suddenly he seemed to grow nervous and perplexed. Esther was looking at him, and he said, "You don't answer, Esther?"

"What would you have me answer?"

"You used to be a good, religious woman. Do you remember how we used to speak when we used to go for walks together, when you were in service in the Avondale road? I remember you agreeing with me that much good could be done by those who were determined to do it. You seem to have changed very much since those days."

For a moment Esther seemed affected by these remembrances. Then she said in a low, musical voice—

"No, I've not changed, Fred, but things has turned out different. One doesn't do the good that one would like to in the world; one has to do the good that comes to one to do. I've my husband and my boy to look to. Them's my good. At least, that's how I sees things."

Fred looked at Esther, and his eyes expressed all the admiration and love that he felt for her character. "One owes a great deal," he said, "to those who are near to one, but not everything; even for their sakes one should not do wrong to others, and you must see that you are doing a great wrong to your fellow-creatures by keeping on this betting. Public-houses are bad enough, but when it comes to gambling as well as drink, there's nothing for us to do but to put the law in motion. Look you, Esther, there isn't a shop-boy earning eighteen shillings a week that hasn't been round here to put his half-crown on some horse. This house is the immoral centre of the neighbourhood. No one's money is refused. The boy that pawned his father's watch to back a horse went to the 'King's Head' to put his money on. His father forgave him again and again. Then the boy stole from the lodgers. There was an old woman of seventy-five who got nine shillings a week for looking after some offices; he had half-a-crown off her. Then the father told the magistrate that he could do nothing with him since he had taken to betting on horse-races. The boy is fourteen. Is it not shocking? It cannot be allowed to go on. We have determined to put a stop to it. That's what I came to tell your husband."

"Are you sure," said Esther, and she bit her lips while she spoke, "that it is entirely for the neighbourhood that you want to get up the prosecution?"

"You don't think there's any other reason, Esther? You surely don't think that I'm doing this because—because he took you away from me?"

Esther didn't answer. And then Fred said, and there was pain and pathos in his voice, "I am sorry you think this of me; I'm not getting up the prosecution. I couldn't prevent the law being put in motion against you even if I wanted to.... I only know that it is going to be put in motion, so for the sake of old times I would save you from harm if I could. I came round to tell you if you did not put a stop to the betting you'd get into trouble. I have no right to do what I have done, but I'd do anything to save you and yours from harm."

"I am sorry for what I said. It was very good of you."

"We have not any proofs as yet; we know, of course, all about the betting, but we must have sworn testimony before the law can be set in motion, so you'll be quite safe if you can persuade your husband to give it up." Esther did not answer. "It is entirely on account of the friendship I feel for you that made me come to warn you of the danger. You don't bear me any ill-will, Esther, I hope?"

"No, Fred, I don't. I think I understand." The conversation paused again. "I suppose we have said everything." Esther turned her face from him. Fred looked at her, and though her eyes were averted from him she could see that he loved her. In another moment he was gone. In her plain and ignorant way she thought on the romance of destiny. For if she had married Fred her life would have been quite different. She would have led the life that she wished to lead, but she had married William and—well, she must do the best she could. If Fred, or Fred's friends, got the police to prosecute them for betting, they would, as he said, not only have to pay a heavy fine, but would probably lose their licence. Then what would they do? William had not health to go about from race-course to race-course as he used to. He had lost a lot of money in the last six months; Jack was at school—they must think of Jack. The thought of their danger lay on her heart all that evening. But she had had no opportunity of speaking to William alone, she had to wait until they were in their room. Then, as she untied the strings of her petticoats, she said—

"I had a visit from Fred Parsons this afternoon."

"That's the fellow you were engaged to marry. Is he after you still?"

"No, he came to speak to me about the betting."

"About the betting—what is it to do with him?"

"He says that if it isn't stopped that we shall be prosecuted."

"So he came here to tell you that, did he? I wish I had been in the bar."

"I'm glad you wasn't. What good could you have done? To have a row and make things worse!"

William lit his pipe and unlaced his boots. Esther slipped on her night-dress and got into a large brass bedstead, without curtains. On the chest of drawers Esther had placed the books her mother had given her, and William had hung some sporting prints on the walls. He took his night-shirt from the pillow and put it on without removing his pipe from his mouth. He always finished his pipe in bed.

"It is revenge," he said, pulling the bed-clothes up to his chin, "because I got you away from him."

"I don't think it is that; I did think so at first, and I said so."

"What did he say?"

"He said he was sorry I thought so badly of him; that he came to warn us of our danger. If he had wanted to do us an injury he wouldn't have said nothing about it. Don't you think so?"

"It seems reasonable. Then what do you think they're doing it for?"

"He says that keeping a betting-house is corruption in the neighbourhood."

"You think he thinks that?"

"I know he do; and there is many like him. I come of them that thinks like that, so I know. Betting and drink is what my folk, the Brethren, holds as most evil."

"But you've forgot all about them Brethren?"

"No, one never forgets what one's brought up in."

"But what do you think now?"

"I've never said nothing about it. I don't believe in a wife interfering with her husband; and business was that bad, and your 'ealth 'asn't been the same since them colds you caught standing about in them betting rings, so I don't see how you could help it. But now that business is beginning to come back to us, it might be as well to give up the betting."

"It is the betting that brings the business; we shouldn't take five pounds a week was it not for the betting. What's the difference between betting on the course and betting in the bar? No one says nothing against it on the course; the police is there, and they goes after the welshers and persecutes them. Then the betting that's done at Tattersall's and the Albert Club, what is the difference? The Stock Exchange, too, where thousands and thousands is betted every day. It is the old story—one law for the rich and another for the poor. Why shouldn't the poor man 'ave his 'alf-crown's worth of excitement? The rich man can have his thousand pounds' worth whenever he pleases. The same with the public 'ouses—there's a lot of hypocritical folk that is for docking the poor man of his beer, but there's no one that's for interfering with them that drink champagne in the clubs. It's all bloody rot, and it makes me sick when I think of it. Them hypocritical folk. Betting! Isn't everything betting? How can they put down betting? Hasn't it been going on since the world began? Rot, says I! They can just ruin a poor devil like me, and that's about all. We are ruined, and the rich goes scot-free. Hypocritical, mealy-mouthed lot. 'Let's say our prayers and sand the sugar'; that's about it. I hate them that is always prating out religion. When I hears too much religion going about I says now's the time to look into their accounts."

William leaned out of bed to light his pipe from the candle on the night-table.

"There's good people in the world, people that never thinks but of doing good, and do not live for pleasure."

"'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,' Esther. Their only pleasure is a bet. When they've one on they've something to look forward to; whether they win or lose they 'as their money's worth. You know what I say is true; you've seen them, how they look forward to the evening paper to see how the 'oss is going on in betting. Man can't live without hope. It is their only hope, and I says no one has a right to take it from them."

"What about their poor wives? Very little good their betting is to them. It's all very well to talk like that, William, but you know, and you can't say you don't, that a great deal of mischief comes of betting; you know that once they think of it and nothing else, they neglect their work. There's Stack, he's lost his place as porter; there's Journeyman, too, he's out of work."

"And a good thing for them; they've done a great deal better since they chucked it."

"For the time, maybe; but who says it will go on? Look at old John; he's going about in rags; and his poor wife, she was in here the other night, a terrible life she's 'ad of it. You says that no 'arm comes of it. What about that boy that was 'ad up the other day, and said that it was all through betting? He began by pawning his father's watch. It was here that he made the first bet. You won't tell me that it is right to bet with bits of boys like that."

"The horse he backed with me won."

"So much the worse.... The boy'll never do another honest day's work as long as he lives.... When they win, they 'as a drink for luck; when they loses, they 'as a drink to cheer them up."

"I'm afraid, Esther, you ought to have married the other chap. He'd have given you the life that you'd have been happy in. This public-'ouse ain't suited to you."

Esther turned round and her eyes met her husband's. There was a strange remoteness in his look, and they seemed very far from each other.

"I was brought up to think so differently," she said, her thoughts going back to her early years in the little southern seaside home. "I suppose this betting and drinking will always seem to me sinful and wicked. I should 'ave liked quite a different kind of life, but we don't choose our lives, we just makes the best of them. You was the father of my child, and it all dates from that."

"I suppose it do."

William lay on his back, and blew the smoke swiftly from his mouth.

"If you smoke much more we shan't be able to breathe in this room."

"I won't smoke no more. Shall I blow the candle out?"

"Yes, if you like."

When the room was in darkness, just before they settled their faces on the pillow for sleep, William said—

"It was good of that fellow to come and warn us. I must be very careful for the future with whom I bet."



XXXVII

On Sunday, as soon as dinner was over, Esther had intended to go to East Dulwich to see Mrs. Lewis. But as she closed the door behind her, she saw Sarah coming up the street.

"Ah, I see you're going out."

"It don't matter; won't you come in, if it's only for a minute?"

"No, thank you, I won't keep you. But which way are you going? We might go a little way together."

They walked down Waterloo Place and along Pall Mall. In Trafalgar Square there was a demonstration, and Sarah lingered in the crowd so long that when they arrived at Charing Cross, Esther found that she could not get to Ludgate Hill in time to catch her train, so they went into the Embankment Gardens. It had been raining, and the women wiped the seats with their handkerchiefs before sitting down. There was no fashion to interest them, and the band sounded foolish in the void of the grey London Sunday. Sarah's chatter was equally irrelevant, and Esther wondered how Sarah could talk so much about nothing, and regretted her visit to East Dulwich more and more. Suddenly Bill's name came into the conversation.

"But I thought you didn't see him any more; you promised us you wouldn't."

"I couldn't help it.... It was quite an accident. One day, coming back from church with Annie—that's the new housemaid—he came up and spoke to us."

"What did he say?"

"He said, 'How are ye?... Who'd thought of meeting you!'"

"And what did you say?"

"I said I didn't want to have nothing to do with him. Annie walked on, and then he said he was very sorry, that it was bad luck that drove him to it."

"And you believed him?"

"I daresay it is very foolish of me. But one can't help oneself. Did you ever really care for a man?"

And without waiting for an answer, Sarah continued her babbling chatter. She had asked him not to come after her; she thought he was sorry for what he had done. She mentioned incidentally that he had been away in the country and had come back with very particular information regarding a certain horse for the Cesarewitch. If the horse won he'd be all right.

At last Esther's patience was tired out.

"It must be getting late," she said, looking towards where the sun was setting. The river rippled, and the edges of the warehouses had perceptibly softened; a wind, too, had come up with the tide, and the women shivered as they passed under the arch of Waterloo Bridge. They ascended a flight of high steps and walked through a passage into the Strand.

"I was miserable enough with him; we used to have hardly anything to eat; but I'm more miserable away from him. Esther, I know you'll laugh at me, but I'm that heart-broken... I can't live without him... I'd do anything for him."

"He isn't worth it."

"That don't make no difference. You don't know what love is; a woman who hasn't loved a man who don't love her, don't. We used to live near here. Do you mind coming up Drury Lane? I should like to show you the house."

"I'm afraid it will be out of our way."

"No, it won't. Round by the church and up Newcastle Street.... Look, there's a shop we used to go to sometimes. I've eaten many a good sausage and onions in there, and that's a pub where we often used to go for a drink."

The courts and alleys had vomited their population into the Lane. Fat girls clad in shawls sat around the slum opening nursing their babies. Old women crouched in decrepit doorways, fumbling their aprons; skipping ropes whirled in the roadway. A little higher up a vendor of cheap ices had set up his store and was rapidly absorbing all the pennies of the neighborhood. Esther and Sarah turned into a dilapidated court, where a hag argued the price of trotters with a family leaning one over the other out of a second-floor window. This was the block in which Sarah had lived. A space had been cleared by the builder, and the other side was shut in by the great wall of the old theatre.

"That's where we used to live," said Sarah, pointing up to the third floor. "I fancy our house will soon come down. When I see the old place it all comes back to me. I remember pawning a dress over the way in the lane; they would only lend me a shilling on it. And you see that shop—the shutters is up, it being Sunday; it is a sort of butcher's, cheap meat, livers and lights, trotters, and such-like. I bought a bullock's heart there, and stewed it down with some potatoes; we did enjoy it, I can tell you."

Sarah talked so eagerly of herself that Esther had not the heart to interrupt her. They made their way out into Catherine Street, and then to Endell Street, and then going round to St. Giles' Church, they plunged into the labyrinth of Soho.

"I'm afraid I'm tiring you. I don't see what interest all this can be to you."

"We've known each other a long time."

Sarah looked at her, and then, unable to resist the temptation, she continued her narrative—Bill had said this, she had said that. She rattled on, until they came to the corner of Old Compton Street. Esther, who was a little tired of her, held out her hand. "I suppose you must be getting back; would you like a drop of something?"

"It is going on for seven o'clock; but since you're that kind I think I'd like a glass of beer."

"Do you listen much to the betting talk here of an evening?" Sarah asked, as she was leaving.

"I don't pay much attention, but I can't help hearing a good deal."

"Do they talk much about Ben Jonson for the Cesarewitch?"

"They do, indeed; he's all the go."

Sarah's face brightened perceptibly, and Esther said—

"Have you backed him?'

"Only a trifle; half-a-crown that a friend put me on. Do they say he'll win?"

"They say that if he don't break down he'll win by 'alf a mile; it all depends on his leg."

"Is he coming on in the betting?"

"Yes, I believe they're now taking 12 to 1 about him. But I'll ask William, if you like."

"No, no, I only wanted to know if you'd heard anything new."



XXXVIII

During the next fortnight Sarah came several times to the "King's Head." She came in about nine in the evening, and stayed for half-an-hour or more. The ostensible object of her visit was to see Esther, but she declined to come into the private bar, where they would have chatted comfortably, and remained in the public bar listening to the men's conversation, listening and nodding while old John explained the horse's staying power to her. On the following evening all her interest was in Ketley. She wanted to know if anything had happened that might be considered as an omen. She said she had dreamed about the race, but her dream was only a lot of foolish rubbish without head or tail. Ketley argued earnestly against this view of a serious subject, and in the hope of convincing her of her error offered to walk as far as Oxford Street with her and put her into her 'bus. But on the following evening all her interest was centered in Mr. Journeyman, who declared that he could prove that according to the weight it seemed to him to look more and more like a certainty. He had let the horse in at six stone ten pounds, the official handicapper had only given him six stone seven pounds.

"They is a-sending of him along this week, and if the leg don't go it is a hundred pound to a brass farthing on the old horse."

"How many times will they gallop him?" Sarah asked.

"He goes a mile and a 'arf every day now.... The day after to-morrow they'll try him, just to see that he hasn't lost his turn of speed, and if he don't break down in the trial you can take it from me that it will be all right."

"When will you know the result of the trial?"

"I expect a letter on Friday morning," said Stack. "If you come in in the evening I'll let you know about it."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Stack. I must be getting home now."

"I'm going your way, Miss Tucker.... If you like, we'll go together, and I'll tell you," he whispered, "all about the 'orse."

When they had left the bar the conversation turned on racing as an occupation for women.

"Fancy my wife making a book on the course. I bet she'd overlay it and then turn round and back the favourite at a shorter price than she'd been laying."

"I don't know that we should be any foolisher than you," said Esther; "don't you never go and overlay your book? What about Syntax and the 'orse you told me about last week?"

William had been heavily hit last week through overlaying his book against a horse he didn't believe in, and the whole bar joined in the laugh against him.

"I don't say nothing about bookmaking," said Journeyman; "but there's a great many women nowadays who is mighty sharp at spotting a 'orse that the handicapper had let in pretty easy."

"This one," said Ketley, jerking his thumb in the direction that Stack and Sarah had gone, "seems to 'ave got hold of something."

"We must ask Stack when he comes back," and Journeyman winked at William.

"Women do get that excited over trifles," old John remarked, sarcastically. "She ain't got above 'alf-a-crown on the 'orse, if that. She don't care about the 'orse or the race—no woman ever did; it's all about some sweetheart that's been piling it on."

"I wonder if you're right," said Esther, reflectively. "I never knew her before to take such an interest in a horse-race."

On the day of the race Sarah came into the private bar about three o'clock. The news was not yet in.

"Wouldn't you like to step into the parlour; you'll be more comfortable?" said Esther.

"No thank you, dear; it is not worth while. I thought I'd like to know which won, that's all."

"Have you much on?"

"No, five shillings altogether.... But a friend of mine stands to win a good bit. I see you've got a new dress, dear. When did you get it?"

"I've had the stuff by me some time. I only had it made up last month. Do you like it?"

Sarah answered that she thought it very pretty. But Esther could see that she was thinking of something quite different.

"The race is over now. It's run at half-past two."

"Yes, but they're never quite punctual; there may be a delay at the post."

"I see you know all about it."

"One never hears of anything else."

Esther asked Sarah when her people came back to town, and was surprised at the change of expression that the question brought to her friend's face.

"They're expected back to-morrow," she said. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, nothing; something to say, that's all."

The conversation paused, and the two women looked at each other. At that moment a voice coming rapidly towards them was heard calling, "Win-ner, win-ner!"

"I'll send out for the paper," said Esther.

"No, no... Suppose he shouldn't have won?"

"Well, it won't make any difference."

"Oh, Esther, no; some one will come in and tell us. The race can't be over yet; it is a long race, and takes some time to run."

By this time the boy was far away, and fainter and fainter the terrible word, "Win-ner, win-ner, win-ner."

"It's too late now," said Sarah; "some one'll come in presently and tell us about it.... I daresay it ain't the paper at all. Them boys cries out anything that will sell."

"Win-ner, win-ner." The voice was coming towards them.

"If he has won, Bill and I is to marry.... Somehow I feel as if he hasn't."

"Win-ner."

"We shall soon know." Esther took a halfpenny from the till.

"Don't you think we'd better wait? It can't be printed in the papers, not the true account, and if it was wrong—" Esther didn't answer; she gave Charles the halfpenny; he went out, and in a few minutes came back with the paper in his hand. "Tornado first, Ben Jonson second, Woodcraft third," he read out. "That's a good thing for the guv'nor. There was very few what backed Tornado.... He's only lost some place-money."

"So he was only second," said Sarah, turning deadly pale. "They said he was certain to win."

"I hope you've not lost much," said Esther. "It wasn't with William that you backed him."

"No, it wasn't with William. I only had a few shillings on. It don't matter. Let me have a drink."

"What will you have?"

"Some whisky."

Sarah drank it neat. Esther looked at her doubtfully.

The bars would be empty for the next two hours; Esther wished to utilize this time; she had some shopping to do, and asked Sarah to come with her. But Sarah complained of being tired, and said she would see her when she came back.

Esther went out a little perplexed. She was detained longer than she expected, and when she returned Sarah was staggering about in the bar-room, asking Charles for one more drink.

"All bloody rot; who says I'm drunk? I ain't... look at me. The 'orse did not win, did he? I say he did; papers all so much bloody rot."

"Oh, Sarah, what is this?"

"Who's this? Leave go, I say."

"Mr. Stack, won't you ask her to come upstairs?... Don't encourage her."

"Upstairs? I'm a free woman. I don't want to go upstairs. I'm a free woman; tell me," she said, balancing herself with difficulty and staring at Esther with dull, fishy eyes, "tell me if I'm not a free woman? What do I want upstairs for?"

"Oh, Sarah, come upstairs and lie down. Don't go out."

"I'm going home. Hands off, hands off!" she said, slapping Esther's hands from her arm.

"'For every one was drunk last night, And drunk the night before; And if we don't get drunk to-night, We don't get drunk no more.

(Chorus.)

"'Now you will have a drink with me, And I will drink with you; For we're the very rowdiest lot Of the rowdy Irish crew.'

"That's what we used to sing in the Lane, yer know; should 'ave seen the coster gals with their feathers, dancing and clinking their pewters. Rippin Day, Bank 'oliday, Epping, under the trees—'ow they did romp, them gals!

"'We all was roaring drunk last night, And drunk the night before; And if we don't get drunk to-night, We won't get drunk no more.'

"Girls and boys, you know, all together."

"Sarah, listen to me."

"Listen! Come and have a drink, old gal, just another drink." She staggered up to the counter. "One more, just for luck; do yer 'ear?" Before Charles could stop her she had seized the whisky that had just been served. "That's my whisky," exclaimed Journeyman. He made a rapid movement, but was too late. Sarah had drained the glass and stood vacantly looking into space. Journeyman seemed so disconcerted at the loss of his whisky that every one laughed.

A few moments after Sarah staggered forward and fell insensible into his arms. He and Esther carried her upstairs and laid her on the bed in the spare room.

"She'll be precious bad to-morrow," said Journeyman.

"I don't know how you could have gone on helping her," Esther said to Charles when she got inside the bar; and she seemed so pained that out of deference to her feelings the subject was dropped out of the conversation. Esther felt that something shocking had happened. Sarah had deliberately got drunk. She would not have done that unless she had some great trouble on her mind. William, too, was of this opinion. Something serious must have happened. As they went up to their room Esther said—

"It is all the fault of this betting. The neighbourhood is completely ruined. They're losing their 'omes and their furniture, and you'll bear the blame of it."

"It do make me so wild to hear you talkin' that way, Esther. People will bet, you can't stop them. I lays fair prices, and they're sure of their money. Yet you says they're losin' their furniture, and that I shall have to bear the blame."

When they got to the top of the stairs she said—

"I must go and see how Sarah is."

"Where am I? What's happened?... Take that candle out of my eyes.... Oh, my head is that painful." She fell back on the pillow, and Esther thought she had gone to sleep again. But she opened her eyes. "Where am I? ...That's you, Esther?"

"Yes. Can't you remember?"

"No, I can't. I remember that the 'orse didn't win, but don't remember nothing after.... I got drunk, didn't I? It feels like it."

"The 'orse didn't win, and then you took too much. It's very foolish of you to give way."

"Give way! Drunk, what matter? I'm done for."

"Did you lose much?"

"It wasn't what I lost, it was what I took. I gave Bill the plate to pledge; it's all gone, and master and missis coming back tomorrow. Don't talk about it. I got drunk so that I shouldn't think of it."

"Oh, Sarah, I didn't think it was as bad as that. You must tell me all about it."

"I don't want to think about it. They'll come soon enough to take me away. Besides, I cannot remember nothing now. My mouth's that awful—Give me a drink. Never mind the glass, give me the water-bottle."

She drank ravenously, and seemed to recover a little. Esther pressed her to tell her about the pledged plate. "You know that I'm your friend. You'd better tell me. I want to help you out of this scrape."

"No one can help me now, I'm done for. Let them come and take me. I'll go with them. I shan't say nothing."

"How much is it in for? Don't cry like that," Esther said, and she took out her handkerchief and wiped Sarah's eyes. "How much is it in for? Perhaps I can get my husband to lend me the money to get it out."

"It's no use trying to help me.... Esther, I can't talk about it now; I shall go mad if I do."

"Tell me how much you got on it."

"Thirty pounds."

It took a long time to undress her. Every now and then she made an effort, and another article of clothing was got off. When Esther returned to her room William was asleep, and Esther took him by the shoulder.

"It is more serious than I thought," she shouted. "I want to tell you about it."

"What about it?" he said, opening his eyes.

"She has pledged the plate for thirty pounds to back that 'orse."

"What 'orse?"

"Ben Jonson."

"He broke down at the bushes. If he hadn't I should have been broke up. The whole neighbourhood was on him. So she pledged the plate to back him. She didn't do that to back him herself. Some one must have put her up to it."

"Yes, it was Bill Evans."

"Ah, that blackguard put her up to it. I thought she'd left him for good. She promised us that she'd never speak to him again."

"You see, she was that fond of him that she couldn't help herself. There's many that can't."

"How much did they get on the plate?"

"Thirty pounds."

William blew a long whistle. Then, starting up in the bed, he said, "She can't stop here. If it comes out that it was through betting, it won't do this house any good. We're already suspected. There's that old sweetheart of yours, the Salvation cove, on the lookout for evidence of betting being carried on."

"She'll go away in the morning. But I thought that you might lend her the money to get the plate out."

"What! thirty pounds?"

"It's a deal of money, I know; but I thought that you might be able to manage it. You've been lucky over this race."

"Yes, but think of all I've lost this summer. This is the first bit of luck I've had for a long while."

"I thought you might be able to manage it."

Esther stood by the bedside, her knee leaned against the edge. She seemed to him at that moment as the best woman in the world, and he said—

"Thirty pounds is no more to me than two-pence-halfpenny if you wish it, Esther."

"I haven't been an extravagant wife, have I?" she said, getting into bed and taking him in her arms. "I never asked you for money before. She's my friend—she's yours too—we've known her all our lives. We can't see her go to prison, can we, Bill, without raising a finger to save her?"

She had never called him Bill before, and the familiar abbreviation touched him, and he said—

"I owe everything to you, Esther; everything that's mine is yours. But," he said, drawing away so that he might see her better, "what do you say if I ask something of you?"

"What are you going to ask me?"

"I want you to say that you won't bother me no more about the betting. You was brought up to think it wicked. I know all that, but you see we can't do without it."

"Do you think not?"

"Don't the thirty pounds you're asking for Sarah come out of betting?"

"I suppose it do."

"Most certainly it do."

"I can't help feeling, Bill, that we shan't always be so lucky as we have been."

"You mean that you think that one of these days we shall have the police down upon us?"

"Don't you sometimes think that we can't always go on without being caught? Every day I hear of the police being down on some betting club or other."

"They've been down on a great number lately, but what can I do? We always come back to that. I haven't the health to work round from race-course to race-course as I used to. But I've got an idea, Esther. I've been thinking over things a great deal lately, and—give me my pipe—there, it's just by you. Now, hold the candle, like a good girl."

William pulled at his pipe until it was fully lighted. He threw himself on his back, and then he said—

"I've been thinking things over. The betting 'as brought us a nice bit of trade here. If we can work up the business a bit more we might, let's say in a year from now, be able to get as much for the 'ouse as we gave.... What do you think of buying a business in the country, a 'ouse doing a steady trade? I've had enough of London, the climate don't suit me as it used to. I fancy I should be much better in the country, somewhere on the South Coast. Bournemouth way, what do you think?"

Before Esther could reply William was taken with a fit of coughing, and his great broad frame was shaken as if it were so much paper.

"I'm sure," said Esther, when he had recovered himself a little, "that a good deal of your trouble comes from that pipe. It's never out of your mouth.... I feel like choking myself."

"I daresay I smoke too much.... I'm not the man I was. I can feel it plain enough. Put my pipe down and blow out the candle.... I didn't ask you how Sarah was."

"Very bad. She was half dazed and didn't tell me much."

"She didn't tell you where she had pledged the plate?"

"No, I will ask her about that to-morrow morning." Leaning forward she blew out the candle. The wick smouldered red for a moment, and they fell asleep happy in each other's love, seeming to find new bonds of union in pity for their friend's misfortune.



XXXIX

"Sarah, you must make an effort and try to dress yourself."

"Oh, I do feel that bad, I wish I was dead!"

"You must not give way like that; let me help you put on your stockings."

Sarah looked at Esther. "You're very good to me, but I can manage." When she had drawn on her stockings her strength was exhausted, and she fell back on the pillow.

Esther waited a few minutes. "Here're your petticoats. Just tie them round you; I'll lend you a dressing-gown and a pair of slippers."

William was having breakfast in the parlour. "Well, feeling a bit poorly?" he said to Sarah. "What'll you have? There's a nice bit of fried fish. Not feeling up to it?"

"Oh, no! I couldn't touch anything." She let herself drop on the sofa.

"A cup of tea'll do you good," said Esther. "You must have a cup of tea, and a bit of toast just to nibble. William, pour her out a cup of tea."

When she had drunk the tea she said she felt a little better.

"Now," said William, "let's 'ear all about it. Esther has told you, no doubt, that we intend to do all we can to help you."

"You can't help me.... I'm done for," she replied dolefully.

"I don't know about that," said William. "You gave that brute Bill Evans the plate to pawn, so far as I know."

"There isn't much more to tell. He said the horse was sure to win. He was at thirty to one at that time. A thousand to thirty. Bill said with that money we could buy a public-house in the country. He wanted to settle down, he wanted to get out of—I don't want to say nothing against him. He said if I would only give him this chance of leading a respectable life, we was to be married immediately after."

"He told you all that, did he? He said he'd give you a 'ome of your own, I know. A regular rotter; that man is about as bad as they make 'em. And you believed it all?"

"It wasn't so much what I believed as what I couldn't help myself. He had got that influence over me that my will wasn't my own. I don't know how it is—I suppose men have stronger natures than women. I 'ardly knew what I was doing; it was like sleep-walking. He looked at me and said, 'You'd better do it.' I did it, and I suppose I'll have to go to prison for it. What I says is just the truth, but no one believes tales like that. How long do you think they'll give me?"

"I hope we shall be able to get you out of this scrape. You got thirty pounds on the plate. Esther has told you that I'm ready to lend you the money to get it out."

"Will you do this? You're good friends indeed.... But I shall never be able to pay you back such a lot of money."

"We won't say nothing about paying back; all we want you to do is to say that you'll never see that fellow again."

A change of expression came over Sarah's face, and William said, "You're surely not still hankering after him?"

"No, indeed I'm not. But whenever I meets him he somehow gets his way with me. It's terrible to love a man as I love him. I know he don't really care for me—I know he is all you say, and yet I can't help myself. It is better to be honest with you."

William looked puzzled. At the end of a long silence he said, "If it's like that I don't see that we can do anything."

"Have patience, William. Sarah don't know what she's saying. She'll promise not to see him again."

"You're very kind to me. I know I'm very foolish. I promised before not to see him, and I couldn't keep my promise."

"You can stop with us until you get a situation in the country," said Esther, "where you'll be out of his way."

"I might do that."

"I don't like to part with my money," said William, "if it is to do no one any good." Esther looked at him, and he added, "It is just as Esther wishes, of course; I'm not giving you the money, it is she."

"It is both of us," said Esther; "you'll do what I said, Sarah?"

"Oh, yes, anything you say, Esther," and she flung herself into her friend's arms and wept bitterly.

"Now we want to know where you pawned the plate," said William.

"A long way from here. Bill said he knew a place where it would be quite safe. I was to say that my mistress left it to me; he said that would be sufficient.... It was in the Mile End Road."

"You'd know the shop again?" said William.

"But she's got the ticket," said Esther.

"No, I ain't got the ticket; Bill has it."

"Then I'm afraid the game's up."

"Do be quiet," said Esther, angrily. "If you want to get out of lending the money say so and have done with it."

"That's not true, Esther. If you want another thirty to pay him to give up the ticket, you can have it."

Esther thanked her husband with one quick look. "I'm sorry," she said, "my temper is that hasty. But you know where he lives," she said, turning to the wretched woman who sat on the sofa pale and trembling.

"Yes, I know where he lives—13 Milward Square, Mile End Road."

"Then we've no time to lose; we must go after him at once."

"No, William dear; you must not; you'd only lose your temper, and he might do you an injury."

"An injury! I'd soon show him which was the best man of the two."

"I'll not hear of it, Sarah. He mustn't go with you."

"Come, Esther, don't be foolish. Let me go."

He had taken his hat from the peg. Esther got between him and the door.

"I forbid it," she said; "I will not let you go—perhaps to have a fight, and with that cough."

William was coughing. He had turned pale, and he said, leaning against the table, "Give me something to drink, a little milk."

Esther poured some into a cup. He sipped it slowly. "I'll go upstairs," she said, "for my hat and jacket. You've got your betting to attend to." William smiled. "Sarah, mind, he's not to go with you."

"You forget what you said last night about the betting."

"Never mind what I said last night about the betting; what I say now is that you're not to leave the bar. Come upstairs, Sarah, and dress yourself, and let's be off."

Stack and Journeyman were waiting to speak to him. They had lost heavily over old Ben and didn't know how they'd pull through; and the whole neighbourhood was in the same plight; the bar was filled with gloomy faces.

And as William scanned their disconcerted faces—clerks, hair-dressers, waiters from the innumerable eating houses—he could not help thinking that perhaps more than one of them had taken money that did not belong to them to back Ben Jonson. The unexpected disaster had upset all their plans, and even the wary ones who had a little reserve fund could not help backing outsiders, hoping by the longer odds to retrieve yesterday's losses. At two the bar was empty, and William waited for Esther and Sarah to return from Mile End. It seemed to him that they were a long time away. But Mile End is not close to Soho; and when they returned, between four and five, he saw at once that they had been unsuccessful. He lifted up the flap in the counter and all three went into the parlour.

"He left Milward Square yesterday," Esther said. "Then we went to another address, and then to another; we went to all the places Sarah had been to with him, but no tidings anywhere."

Sarah burst into tears. "There's no more hope," she said. "I'm done for; they'll come and take me away. How much do you think I'll get? They won't give me ten years, will they?"

"I can see nothing else for you to do," said Esther, "but to go straight back to your people and tell them the whole story, and throw yourself on their mercy."

"Do you mean that she should say that she pawned the plate to get money to back a horse?"

"Of course I do."

"It will make the police more keen than ever on the betting houses."

"That can't be helped."

"She'd better not be took here," said William; "it will do a great deal of harm.... It don't make no difference to her where she's took, do it?"

Esther did not answer.

"I'll go away. I don't want to get no one into trouble," Sarah said, and she got up from the sofa.

At that moment Charles opened the door, and said, "You're wanted in the bar, sir."

William went out quickly. He returned a moment after. There was a scared look on his face. "They're here," he said. He was followed by two policemen. Sarah uttered a little cry.

"Your name is Sarah Tucker?" said the first policeman.

"Yes."

"You're charged with robbery by Mr. Sheldon, 34, Cumberland Place."

"Shall I be taken through the streets?"

"If you like to pay for it, you can go in a cab," the police-officer replied.

"I'll go with you, dear," Esther said. William plucked her by the sleeve. "It will do no good. Why should you go?"



XL

The magistrate of course sent the case for trial, and the thirty pounds which William had promised to give to Esther went to pay for the defence. There seemed at first some hope that the prosecution would not be able to prove its case, but fresh evidence connecting Sarah with the abstraction of the plate was forthcoming, and in the end it was thought advisable that the plea of not guilty should be withdrawn. The efforts of counsel were therefore directed towards a mitigation of sentence. Counsel called Esther and William for the purpose of proving the excellent character that the prisoner had hitherto borne; counsel spoke of the evil influence into which the prisoner had fallen, and urged that she had no intention of actually stealing the plate. Tempted by promises, she had been persuaded to pledge the plate in order to back a horse which she had been told was certain to win. If that horse had won, the plate would have been redeemed and returned to its proper place in the owner's house, and the prisoner would have been able to marry. Possibly the marriage on which the prisoner had set her heart would have turned out more unfortunate for the prisoner than the present proceedings. Counsel had not words strong enough to stigmatise the character of a man who, having induced a girl to imperil her liberty for his own vile ends, was cowardly enough to abandon her in the hour of her deepest distress. Counsel drew attention to the trusting nature of the prisoner, who had not only pledged her employer's plate at his base instigation, but had likewise been foolish enough to confide the pawn-ticket to his keeping. Such was the prisoner's story, and he submitted that it bore on the face of it the stamp of truth. A very sad story, but one full of simple, foolish, trusting humanity, and, having regard to the excellent character the prisoner had borne, counsel hoped that his lordship would see his way to dealing leniently with her.

His Lordship, whose gallantries had been prolonged over half a century, and whose betting transactions were matters of public comment, pursed up his ancient lips and fixed his dead glassy eyes on the prisoner. He said he regretted that he could not take the same view of the prisoner's character as learned counsel had done. The police had made every effort to apprehend the man Evans who, according to the prisoner's story, was the principal culprit. But the efforts of the police had been unavailing; they had, however, found traces of the man Evans, who undoubtedly did exist, and need not be considered to be a near relative of our friend Mrs. Harris. And the little joke provoked some amusement in the court; learned counsel settled their robes becomingly and leant forward to listen. They were in for a humorous speech, and the prisoner would get off with a light sentence. But the grim smile waxed duller, and it was clear that lordship was determined to make the law a terror to evil-doers. Lordship drew attention to the fact that during the course of their investigations the police had discovered that the prisoner had been living for some considerable time with the man Evans, during which time several robberies had been effected. There was no evidence, it was true, to connect the prisoner with these robberies. The prisoner had left the man Evans and had obtained a situation in the house of her present employers. When the characters she had received from her former employers were being examined she had accounted for the year she had spent with the man Evans by saying that she had been staying with the Latches, the publicans who had given evidence in her favour. It had also come to the knowledge of the police that the man Evans used to frequent the "King's Head," that was the house owned by the Latches; it was probable that she had made there the acquaintance of the man Evans. The prisoner had referred her employers to the Latches, who had lent their sanction to the falsehood regarding the year she was supposed to have spent with them, but which she had really spent in cohabitation with a notorious thief. Here lordship indulged in severe remarks against those who enabled not wholly irreproachable characters to obtain situations by false pretences, a very common habit, and one attended with great danger to society, one which society would do well to take precautions to defend itself against.

The plate, his Lordship remarked, was said to have been pawned, but there was nothing to show that it had been pawned, the prisoner's explanation being that she had given the pawn-ticket to the man Evans. She could not tell where she had pawned the plate, her tale being that she and the man Evans had gone down to Whitechapel together and pawned it in the Mile End Road. But she did not know the number of the pawnbroker's, nor could she give any indications as to its whereabouts—beyond the mere fact that it was in the Mile End Road she could say nothing. All the pawnbrokers in the Mile End Road had been searched, but no plate answering to the description furnished by the prosecution could be found.

Learned counsel had endeavoured to show that it had been in a measure unpremeditated, that it was the result of a passing but irresistible temptation. Learned counsel had endeavoured to introduce some element of romance into the case; he had described the theft as the outcome of the prisoner's desire of marriage, but lordship could not find such purity of motive in the prisoner's crime. There was nothing to show that there was any thought of marriage in the prisoner's mind; the crime was the result, not of any desire of marriage, but rather the result of vicious passion, concubinage. Regarding the plea that the crime was unpremeditated, it was only necessary to point out that it had been committed for a distinct purpose and had been carried out in conjunction with an accomplished thief.