The gang are nearly
always full of stories about their miserable scrambling fights, and
anyone might fancy he had got among a regular corps of paladins to hear
them vapour. One marvellously vile betting person haunts me like a
disease. The animal has a head like a sea-urchin, his lips are blubbery,
his tongue is too big for his mouth, and his face is like one that you
see in a nightmare. The ugly head is stuck on a body which resembles a
sack of rancid engine grease. This beauty is a fairly representative
specimen of our bold sportsmen. He is a deft swindler, and I have gazed
with blank innocence while he rooked some courageous simpleton at
tossing. The fat, rancid man can do almost as he chooses with a handful
of coins, and the marvellous celerity with which sovereigns or halfpence
glide between his podgy fingers is quite fascinating. On the subjects of
adultery and fighting this object is great, and his foul voice resounds
greasily amid our meetings of brave sportsmen. He is accompanied by a
choice selection of gay spirits, and I take leave to say that the
popular conception of hell is quite barren and poor compared with the
howling reality that we can show on any day when a little "sport" is to
the fore.
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