CHAPTER XXVII

A BATCH OF GOOD FELLOWS

“COME and have a quiet chop with me at Chousey’s,” said Mr. O’Dicey in his usual off-hand way, as he met our plump hero strolling moodily along the north shore—hands deep in peg-top trouser pockets—chewing the cud of a conversation he had just had with Miss Rosa, in which he thought she had been rather more affable to Bunting than there was any occasion for. This was shortly after the consultation we described in our last chapter, during which time O’Dicey had had ample time for making arrangements, as well for the entertainment as for securing the company of a few of those choice spirits by whom a “pluck” is best effected. The invitation was opportune, for Jasper was out of humour with Miss Rosa for encouraging that grinning simpleton, with his flourishing airs and poetical nonsense, and knew that dining with O’Dicey would annoy both her and Mamma, so he immediately closed with the offer, and inquired about the hour.

“What time?” asked he, with a smile of satisfaction.

“Oh, any time,—six, half-past; seven if you like; but seven punc. mind, if it is seven.”

“O six would suit me best,” replied Jasper, unused to such fashionable hours. (Four was their hour in the country.)

“Six be it, then,” replied Mr. O’Dicey, “Six be it; and I’ll see if I can get two or three good fellows to meet you. Just a chop you know—no dressing—no dressing—come as you are—come as you are.” So saying, he waved an adieu with his clean primrose-colour kid-gloved hand, and went swinging away in quest of his comrogues.

It so happened that there were a good many queer fellows down at the Rocks at this particular time; indeed there generally are at all race-meetings; and though the sports of the turf were over for the present, the vultures availed themselves of the short interregnum before the commencement of the Scrambleford meeting to indulge in a little bodily ablution, and pick up such stray birds as came in their way at billiards, cards, dice, or what not. An accomplished “leg” can play at anything, or find those who can. Mr. O’Dicey’s dining rule being not more than the eight nor less than the six, he very soon picked up as many guests as filled the round table of the Dolphin dining-room. As it is always a convenience to know something of those we are going to meet before they arrive, we will here introduce them to the reader, instead of leading them up as they come. The stuttering Major Minster claims precedence in point of age, and was a long-faced, straight-haired, blue-eyed, stoutish, middle-aged, clean-shaven, blue-surtouted, pepper-and-salt-trowsered man, who talked aide-de-camp ship, and affected such a horror for gaming and all youthful indiscretions, that a fond mother would think he was just the sort of man she would like to send a darling son abroad with. The Major was cautious and considerate; always paused before he stuttered his answer; and gave disparaging opinions in such a guarded sort of way, that they carried far more weight than downright denunciations would have done. He was a capital hand at both billiards and cards, but having had the misfortune to be found out, people had got shy of him; and not having the wherewithal to set up for himself, had become a sort of hanger-on of O’Dicey’s, to whom the Major’s steady demure looks and respectable conversation were a great advantage and accommodation.

Curlew, the before-mentioned Ginger Curlew, was a very little man, with a whipped-spaniel sort of look about him that told sadly against him at first; but he was a bold, bad little fellow, who if he made a set at a man, would follow him to the Land’s End, before he would let him go unamerced. His rôle was Parliament. “When oi was in Parliament,” for he always took care to trot out his short parliamentary career, just as Mr. Handeycock trots out Peter Simple’s grandfather, Lord Privilege,—when he thinks there is anything to be made by the display. Curlew’s investment for a seat had not been a bad one, for “Thos. Curlew, Esq., M.P.” appears on all books, papers, and writings, belonging to him; thus giving his comrogues an opportunity of thinking he is still a senator instead of something else beginning with an S, a title that would not be quite so useful in aiding his plucking endeavours.

The next gentleman we have the honour of introducing to the reader is the well-known Captain Arthur Gammon, who goes on the false tack principle too, namely, that of keeping hounds, thus usurping the credit of the Gammon who does. His flash talk is about hunting,

And very well he does it. He is always wanting a huntsman or whip, or a horse “to carry one of my men.” In person he is a sort of O’Dicey double, but younger, having all his great original’s impudence without his tact. Gammon had the misfortune to begin life by thinking he could do O’Dicey, and bitterly he paid for his temerity. O’Dicey plucked him as clean as a poulterer plucks a pullet, and then converted him into a sort of second fiddle, setting him to aid his arrangements and do his bidding on all occasions. Like O’Dicey, Gammon goes for the clothes, flash, shiny, and glittering, seldom appearing two days alike. He is a smart well-set-up little man, with a good curly head of dark clustering hair, bright eyes, and good features generally; which, with his careful costume and consummate assurance, served him in good stead at first, and got him into several good country houses, from which he was often as difficult to eject as the celebrated Soapey Sponge himself. Having once effected a logement in a certain nobleman’s house, where he seemed well inclined to stay on for ever, various expedients, such as packing up his portmanteau and presenting him with the key at breakfast, asking him where he wished to have his letters directed to, and so on, were resorted to for the purpose of ousting him without success. At length it was thought advisable to take soundings as to how long he meant to stay, so the project of some future excursion was brought upon the tapis during dinner, and Captain Gammon was urgently appealed to to form one of the party. “Hay—haw—hum,” replied he, fingering his tie; “hay—haw—hum,” paying the same compliment to his trinkets, “fear I must be off before then—been here almost a fortnight as it is.”

“Sir,” interposed the pompous butler, who was “drying” or “sweeting” the company—“Sir, you will have been here three weeks to-morrow.”

So much for the Captain, who may now pass on for the present.

Now for Mr. Wanless, the gentleman who formed one of the council of war at the Minerva Mansion. Joe, as they call him, is a queer fellow, and he looks like one. He calls himself a monetary discount and general commission agent, which may mean anything. He is a sedate, bald-headed, middle-aged man, whose otherwise quiet appearance is marred by a watchful restlessness of eye, as if he lived in constant expectations of a kick. His conversation is generally about lords and great people whose bills he has manipulated (perhaps stolen); but a man might talk to Joe for a month without being able to come to any conclusion as to what he really is, so mixed and miscellaneous is his matter—now about politics, now about prices, now about farming, now about shooting, and anon about fox-hunting. His is the finishing department—his the delicate duty of opportunely producing the little bill-stamp that enables parties to square accounts at the moment, on the principle that Joe always enforces, of short reckonings making long friends. Joe’s next business is to trot off into the City to get the bill “done.” Such were the parties to the plant on our fat friend; and O’Dicey, well knowing where to find them—the Major at Slowman’s reading-room, Curlew at Sidepocket’s billiard-table, Gammon at Spurrier the saddler’s, and Joe at the railway station—he gave each a monosyllabical summons for six, and proceeded on his way rejoicing. He would steal a march on mother and daughter (meaning our fair friend and Mamma) if he could. He then looked in at Chousey’s to give the finishing touch to the programme of the entertainment.