a long ride before me. And now, friend Jerry, before I start, suppose you tip us one of your merry staves; we haven’t heard your pipe to-day, and never a cross cove of us all can throw off so prime a chant as yourself. A song! a song!”
“Ay, a song!” reiterated King and the Magus.
“You do me too much honor, gemmen,” said Jerry, modestly, taking a pinch of snuff; “I am sure I shall be most happy. My chants are all of a sort. You must make all due allowances — hem!” And, clearing his throat, he forthwith warbled
THE MODERN GREEK
(Not translated from the Romaic.)
Come, gemmen, name, and make your game,
See, round the ball is spinning.
Black, red, or blue, the colors view,
Une, deux, cinque, ’tis beginning, Then make your game, The color name, While round the ball is spinning.
This sleight of hand my flat shall land While covered by my bonnet,104 I plant my ball, and boldly call, Come make your game upon it! Thus rat-a-tat! I land my flat! ’Tis black — not red — is winning.
At gay roulette was never met A lance like mine for bleeding! I’m ne’er at fault, at nothing halt, All other legs preceding. To all awake, I never shake A mag105 unless I nip it.
Blind-hookey sees how well I squeeze The well-packed cards in shuffling. Ecarté, whist, I never missed, A nick the broads106 while ruffling. Mogul or loo, The same I do, I am down to trumps as trippet!
French hazard ta’en, I nick the main, Was ne’er so prime a caster. No crabs for me, I’m fly, d’ye see; The bank shall change its master. Seven quatre, trois, The stakes are high! Ten mains! ten mains are mine, pals!
At Rouge et Noir, you hellite107 choir I’ll make no bones of stripping; One glorious coup for me shall do, While they may deal each pip in. Trente-un-après Ne’er clogs my way; The game — the game’s divine, pals.
At billiards set, I make my bet,
I’ll score and win the rub, pals; I miss my cue, my hazard, too, But yet my foe I’ll drub, pals. That cannon-twist, I ne’er had missed, Unless to suit my views, pals.
To make all right, the match look tight, This trick, you know, is done, pals; But now be gay, I’ll show my play — Hurrah! the game is won, pals. No hand so fine, No wrist like mine, No odds I e’er refuse, pals.
Then choose your game; whate’er you name,
To me alike all offers;
Chic-hazard, whist, whate’er you list,
Replenish quick your coffers.
Thus, rat-a-tat!
I land my flat! To every purse I speak, pals.
Cramped boxes ‘ware, all’s right and fair, Barred balls I bar when goaded; The deuce an ace is out of place! The deuce a die is loaded! Then make your game, Your color name; Success attend the Greek, pals.
“Bravo, Jerry — bravissimo!” chorused the party.
“And now, pals, farewell! — a long farewell!” said Dick, in a tone of theatrical valediction. “As I said before, the best friends must separate. We may soon meet again, or we now may part forever. We cannot command our luck; but we can make the best of the span allotted to us. You have your game to play. I have mine. May each of us meet with the success he deserves.”
“Egad! I hope not,” said King. “I’m afraid, in that case, the chances would be against us.”
“Well, then, the success we anticipate, if you prefer it,” rejoined Dick. “I have only to observe one thing more, namely, that I must insist upon standing Sam upon the present occasion. Not a word. I won’t hear a syllable. Landlord, I say — what oh!” continued Dick, stepping out of the arbor. “Here, my old Admiral of the White, what’s the reckoning? — what’s to pay, I say?”
“Let ye know directly, sir,” replied mine host of the Falstaff.
“Order my horse — the black mare,” added Dick.
“And mine,” said King, “the sorrel colt. I’ll ride with you a mile or two on the road, Dick; perhaps we may stumble upon something.”
“Very likely.”
“We meet at twelve, at D’Osyndar’s, Jerry,” said King, “if nothing happens.”
“Agreed,” responded Juniper.
“What say you to a rubber at bowls, in the mean time?” said the Magus, taking his everlasting pipe from his lips.
Jerry nodded acquiescence. And while they went in search of the implements of the game, Turpin and King sauntered gently on the green.
It was a delicious evening. The sun was slowly declining, and glowed like a ball of fire amid the thick foliage of a neighboring elm. Whether, like the robber Moor, Tom King was touched by this glorious sunset, we pretend not to determine. Certain it was that a shade of inexpressible melancholy passed across his handsome countenance, as he gazed in the direction of Harrow-on-the Hill, which, lying to the west of the green upon which they walked, stood out with its pointed spire and lofty college against the ruddy sky. He spoke not. But Dick noticed the passing emotion.
“What ails you, Tom?” said he, with much kindness of manner —“are you not well, lad?”
“Yes, I am well enough,” said King; “I know not what came over me, but looking at Harrow, I thought of my school days, and what I was then, and that bright prospect reminded me of my boyish hopes.”
“Tut — tut,” said Dick, “this is idle — you are a man now.”
“I know I am,” replied Tom, “but I have been a boy. Had I any faith in presentiments, I should say this is the last sunset I shall ever see.”
“Here comes our host,” said Dick, smiling. “I’ve no presentiment that this is the last bill I shall ever pay.”
The bill was brought and settled. As Turpin paid it, the man’s conduct was singular, and awakened his suspicions.
“Are our horses ready?” asked Dick, quickly.
“They are, sir,” said the landlord.
“Let us be gone,” whispered Dick to King; “I don’t like this fellow’s manner. I thought
