Said a grave turfite to me last week, "Call
_those_ sportsmen! I'd--I'd--" but he could not invent a doom horrid
enough for them, so he changed the subject with a mighty snort.
There is no knowing what gentlemen like Jerry will do. To call them
scoundrels is to flatter them: they are brigands, and the knifing,
lounging rascals of Sicily and Calabria are mere children in villany
compared with their English imitators. Places like The Chequers are the
hunting-grounds of creatures like Jerry, and the bait of drink draws the
victims thither ready to be sacrificed. A month ago four of Jerry's gang
most heartlessly robbed a publican who had sold his business. He had the
purchase-money in his pocket, and the fellows drugged him. He ought to
have known better, seeing how often he had watched the brigands
operating on other people; but as he lost L700, and as his assailants
are still at large with their shares of the spoil, we must not reproach
him or add to his misery.
I picked out Jerry for portraiture because he is a fairly typical
specimen of a bad--a very bad--set.
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