The Reminiscences of Sir Henry Hawkins (Baron Brampton) Part 10

"Rooked! That's very extraordinary. I'm winning like anything. Look here!" and I pointed to my pockets, which were almost bursting.

"Yes," said he, "I see how it is: you've been winning on twos to one, and I've been losing on threes."

"Black's the winning colour to-day, Charley--_noir_; you should have backed _noir_. Besides, long odds are much too risky. I am quite content with two to one."

Here there was a general break-up of the party, because Charley being out of it as well as several others, it left only one, and, of course, the keeper of the booth was not so foolish, however honourable, to pay me two half-crowns and win only one. So there it ended.

That night I made this game a study, and the sensible conclusion came to me that if you would take advantage of the table you should play for the lower stakes, because you have a better chance of winning than those who play high. At least, that was the result of my policy; for while those who played high were ruined, my pockets were filled, and, by that cautious mode of playing, I was so lucky that, had there been enough at threes to one, I could have kept on making money as long as they had any to lose.

I changed my half-crowns with the booth-keeper for gold, and reached my chambers safely with the spoil. And how pleasant it was to count it!

It has occurred to me since that the keeper of the booth had carefully noted my proceedings (such was my innocence), and that he made his calculations for a future occasion. One thing he was quite sure of--namely, that he would see me again on the first opportunity there was of winning more half-crowns.

It is possible that a succession of runs of luck might have put an end to my professional career; it is certain that the opposite result put an end to my card-playing aspirations.

In about a fortnight, all eager for a renewal of my Epsom experience, I went down to the Ascot meeting, taking with me not only all my previous winnings, but my store of savings for the rainy day, and was determined to pursue the same moderate system of cautious play.

There was the same booth, the same little flag fluttering on the top, and the same obliging proprietor. He recognized me at once, and looked as if he was quite sure I would be there--as if, in fact, he had been waiting for me. After a pleasant greeting and a few friendly words, I thought it a little odd that a man should be so glad to meet one who had come to fill his pockets at the booth-keeper's expense--at least, I thought this afterwards, not at the time. He looked genuinely pleased, and down I sat once more, quite sure that two to one would beat three.

The proprietor kept his eye on my play in a very thoughtful manner, nor was it surprising that he knew his game as well as I; in fact, it turned out that he knew it better. To this day I am unable to explain how he manoeuvred it, how he adjusted his tactics to counteract mine; but that something happened more than mere luck would account for was certain, for, as often as the half-crown went on black, red was the lucky colour. But I persevered on black because it had been my friend at Epsom, and down went the half-crowns, to be swept up by the keeper of the booth. I cannot even now explain how it was done.

Intending to make a good day's work and gather a rich harvest, I took with me every shilling I had in the world--not only my previous winnings, but my hard-earned savings at the Bar. I began to lose, but went on playing, in the vain hope--the worst hope of the gambler--of retrieving what I had lost and recovering my former luck. But it was not to be; the table was against me. I forsook my loyalty to black and laid on red. Alas! red was no better friend. I lost again, and knew now that all my Epsom winnings had found their way once more into the keeper's pocket. A fortnight's loan was all I had of them. It was a pity they had not been given to some charity. But I kept on bravely enough, and did not despair or leave off while I had a half-crown left. That half-crown, however, was soon raked up with the rest into the keeper's bag.

I was bankrupt, with nothing in my pocket but twopence and a return ticket from Paddington.

Hopeless and helpless, I had learnt a lesson--a lesson you can only learn in the school of experience.

I little thought then that the only certain winner at the gaming-table is _the table itself_, and made up my mind as I walked alone and disappointed through Windsor Park, on my way to the station, that I would never touch a card again--and I never did.

For the first time since setting out in the morning I felt hungry, and bought a pennyworth of apples at a little stall kept by an old woman, and a bottle of ginger-beer. Such was my frugal meal; and thus sustained I tramped on, my return ticket being my only possession in the world. I reached Paddington with a sorry heart, and walked to the Temple, my good resolution my only comfort; but it was all-sufficient for the occasion and for all time to come.

CHAPTER XI.

"CODD'S PUZZLE."

Having somewhat succeeded in my practice at Quarter Sessions, I enlarged my field of adventure by attending the Old Bailey, hoping, of course, to obtain some briefs at that court; and although I abandoned the practice as a rule, I was, in after-life, on many occasions retained to appear in cases which are still fresh in my memory. I was with Edwin James, who was counsel for Mr. Bates, one of the partners of Strahan and Sir John Dean Paul, bankers of the Strand, and who were sentenced to fourteen years' transportation for fraudulently misappropriating securities of their customers. I was counsel for a young clerk to Leopold Redpath, the notorious man who was transported for extensive forgeries upon the Great Northern Railway. The clerk was justly acquitted by the jury.

My recollection of this period brings back many curious defences, which ill.u.s.trate the school of advocacy in which I studied. Whether they contributed to my future success, I do not know, but that they afforded amus.e.m.e.nt is proved by my remembering them at all.

Hertford and St. Albans were my chief places, my earliest attachments, and are amongst my pleasantest memories. It seems childish to think of them as scenes of my struggles, for when I come to look back I had no struggles at all. I was merely practising like a cricketer at the nets; there was nothing to struggle for except a verdict when it would not come without some effort.

But dear old Codd was the man to struggle. He struggled and wriggled; tie him up as tightly as you could, you saw him fighting to get free, as he did in the following great duck case. He was a very amiable old barrister, a fast talker--so fast that he never stayed to p.r.o.nounce his words--and of an ingenuity that ought to have been applied to some better purpose, such as the making of steam-engines or writing novels, rather than defending thieves. He reminded me on this occasion of the man in the circus who rode several horses at a time. In the case I allude to, he set up no less than _seven defences_ to account for the unhappy duck's finding its way into his client's pocket, and the charm of them all was their variety. Inconsistency was not the word to apply reproachfully. Inconsistency was Codd's merit. He was like a conjurer who asks you to name a card, and as surely as you do so you draw it from the pack.

This particular duck case was known long after as "Codd's Puzzle."

"First," says Codd, "my client bought the duck and paid for it."

He was not the man to be afraid of being asked where.

"Second," says Codd, "my client found it; thirdly, it had been given to him; fourthly, it flew into his garden; fifthly, he was asleep, and some one put it into his pocket." And so the untiring and ingenious Codd proceeded making his case unnaturally good.

But the strange thing was that, instead of sweeping him away with a touch of ridicule, the young advocate argued the several defences one after the other with great dialectical skill, so that the jury became puzzled; and if the defence had not been so extraordinarily good, there would have been an acquittal forthwith.

There had been such a bewildering torrent of arguments that presently Codd's head began to swim, and he shrugged his shoulders, meaning thereby that it was the most puzzling case _he_ had ever had anything to do with.

At last it became a question whether, amidst these conflicting accounts, there ever was any duck at all. Codd had not thought of that till some junior suggested it, and then he was asked by the Marquis of Salisbury, our chairman, whether there was any particular line of defence he wished to suggest.

"No," says Codd, "not in particular; my client wished to make a clean breast of it, and put them all before the jury; and I should be much obliged if those gentlemen will adopt any one of them."[A]

The jury acquitted the prisoner, not because they chose any particular defence, but because they did not know which to choose, and so gave the prisoner the benefit of the doubt.

The client was happy, and Codd famous.

[Footnote A: Sixty years after this event, in the reply in the great Tichborne case, Mr. Hawkins, Q.C., quoted this very defence as an ill.u.s.tration of the absurdity of the suggestion that one of several _Ospreys_ picked up Sir Roger Tichborne--as will hereafter appear.]

CHAPTER XII.

GRAHAM, THE POLITE JUDGE.

Just before my time the punishment of death was inflicted for almost every offence of stealing which would now be thought sufficiently dealt with by a sentence of a week's imprisonment. The struggle to turn King's evidence was great, and it was almost a compet.i.tive examination to ascertain who knew most about the crime; and he, being generally the worst of the gang, was accepted accordingly.

I remember when I was a child three men, named respectively Marshall, Cartwright, and Ingram, were charged with having committed a burglary in the house of a gentleman named Pym, who lived in a village in Hertfordshire, Marshall being at that time, and Cartwright having previously been, butler in the gentleman's service. Ingram had been a footman in London.

The burglary was not in itself of an aggravated character. Plate only was stolen, and that had been concealed under the gravel bed of a little rivulet which ran through the grounds.

No violence or threat of violence had been offered to any inmate of the house, yet the case was looked upon as serious because of the position of trust which had been held by the two butlers.

Ingram was admitted as King's evidence. The butlers were convicted, sentenced to death, and hanged, whilst Ingram was, according to universal practice, set at liberty. Before the expiration of a year, however, he was convicted of having stolen a horse, and as horse-stealing was a capital offence at that time, he suffered the penalty of death at Hereford.

It was a curious coincidence that only a year or two afterwards a man named Probert, who had given King's evidence upon which the notorious Thurtell and Hunt were convicted of the brutal murder of Weare and executed, was also released, and within a year convicted of horse-stealing and hanged.

An old calendar for the a.s.size at Lincoln, which I give as an Appendix, reminds me of the condition of the law and of its victims at that time. At every a.s.size it was like a tiger let loose upon the district. If a man escaped the gallows, he was lucky, while the criminals were by no means the hardened ruffians who had been trained in the school of crime; they were mostly composed of the most ignorant rural labourers--if, indeed, in those days there were any degrees of ignorance, when to be able to read a few words by spelling them was considered a prodigious feat.

Jurors often endeavoured to mitigate the terrors of the law by finding that the stolen property, however valuable it might be, was of less value than five shillings. May the recording angel "drop a tear over this record of perjury and blot it out for ever."

It was in those days that Mr. Justice Graham was called upon to administer the law, and on one occasion particularly he vindicated his character for courtesy to all who appeared before him. He was a man unconscious of humour and yet humorous, and was not aware of the extreme civility which he exhibited to everybody and upon all occasions, especially to the prisoner.

People went away with a sense of grat.i.tude for his kindness, and when he sentenced a batch of prisoners to death he did it in a manner that might make any one suppose, if he did not know the facts, that they had been awarded prizes for good conduct.

He was firm, nevertheless--a great thing in judges, if not accompanied with weakness of mind. I may add that there was a singular precision in his mode of expression as well as in his ideas.