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The Complete Rust Programming Reference Guide

Design, develop, and deploy effective software systems using the

advanced constructs of Rust

Rahul Sharma
Vesa Kaihlavirta
Claus Matzinger

BIRMINGHAM - MUMBAI
The Complete Rust
Programming Reference
Guide

Copyright © 2019 Packt Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored

in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means,
without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the
case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

Every effort has been made in the preparation of this book to ensure
the accuracy of the information presented. However, the information
contained in this book is sold without warranty, either express or
implied. Neither the authors, nor Packt Publishing or its dealers and
distributors, will be held liable for any damages caused or alleged to
have been caused directly or indirectly by this book.

Packt Publishing has endeavored to provide trademark information

about all of the companies and products mentioned in this book by
the appropriate use of capitals. However, Packt Publishing cannot
guarantee the accuracy of this information.

First published: May 2019

Production reference: 1200519

Published by Packt Publishing Ltd.

Livery Place
35 Livery Street
Birmingham
B3 2PB, UK.

ISBN 978-1-83882-810-3

www.packtpub.com
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Contributors
About the authors
Rahul Sharma is passionately curious about teaching
programming. He has been writing software for the last two years.
He got started with Rust with his work on Servo, a browser engine
by Mozilla Research as part of his GSoC project. At present, he
works at
AtherEnergy, where he is building resilient cloud infrastructure for
smart scooters. His interests include systems programming,
distributed systems, compilers and type theory. He is also an
occasional contributor to the Rust language and does mentoring of
interns on the Servo project by Mozilla.

Vesa Kaihlavirta has been programming since he was five,

beginning with C64 Basic. His main professional goal in life is to
increase awareness of programming languages and software quality
in all industries that use software. He's an Arch Linux Developer
Fellow, and has been working in the telecom and financial industry
for a decade. Vesa lives in Jyvaskyla, central Finland.

Claus Matzinger is a software engineer with a very diverse

background. After working in a small company maintaining code for
embedded devices, he joined a large corporation to work on legacy
Smalltalk applications. This led to a great interest in
programming languages early on, and Claus became the CTO for a
health games start-up based on Scala technology. Since then, Claus'
roles have shifted toward customer-facing roles in the IoT database
technology start-up crate.io and, most recently, Microsoft. There, he
hosts a podcast, writes code together with customers, and blogs
about the solutions arising from these engagements. For more than
5 years, Claus has implemented software to help
customers innovate, achieve, and maintain success.
Packt is searching for authors
like you
If you're interested in becoming an author for Packt, please visit autho
rs.packtpub.com and apply today. We have worked with thousands of

developers and tech professionals, just like you, to help them share
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Table of Contents
Title Page

Copyright

The Complete Rust Programming Reference Guide

About Packt

Why subscribe?

Packt.com

Contributors

About the authors

Packt is searching for authors like you

Preface
Who this book is for

What this book covers

To get the most out of this book

Download the example code files

Conventions used

Get in touch

Reviews

1. Getting Started with Rust

What is Rust and why should you care?

Installing the Rust compiler and toolchain

Using rustup.rs

A tour of the language

Primitive types

Declaring variables and immutability

Functions

Closures

Strings

Conditionals and decision making

Match expressions

Loops

User-defined types
 Structs

Enums

Functions and methods on types

Impl blocks on structs

Impl blocks for enums

Modules, imports, and use statements

Collections

Arrays

Tuples

Vectors

Hashmaps

Slices

Iterators

Exercise – fixing the word counter

Summary

2. Managing Projects with Cargo

Package managers

Modules

Nested modules

File as a module

Directory as module

Cargo and crates

Creating a new Cargo project

Cargo and dependencies

Running tests with Cargo

Running examples with Cargo

Cargo workspace
Extending Cargo and tools

Subcommands and Cargo installation

cargo-watch

cargo-edit
cargo-deb

cargo-outdated
Linting code with clippy

Exploring the manifest file – Cargo.toml

Setting up a Rust development environment
 Building a project with Cargo – imgtool
Summary

3. Tests, Documentation, and Benchmarks

Motivation for testing

Organizing tests
Testing primitives

Attributes
Assertion macros

Unit tests
First unit test

Running tests
Isolating test code

Failing tests
Ignoring tests

Integration tests
First integration test

Sharing common code

Documentation

Writing documentation
Generating and viewing documentation

Hosting documentation
Doc attributes

Documentation tests
Benchmarks

Built-in micro-benchmark harness

Benchmarking on stable Rust

Writing and testing a crate – logic gate simulator

Continuous integration with Travis CI

Summary
4. Types, Generics, and Traits

Type systems and why they matter

Generics

Creating generic types

Generic functions

Generic types
Generic implementations
 Using generics
Abstracting behavior with traits

Traits
The many forms of traits

Marker traits
Simple traits
Generic traits

Associated type traits

Inherited traits
Using traits with generics – trait bounds
Trait bounds on types

Trait bounds on generic functions and impl blocks

Using + to compose traits as bounds
Trait bounds with impl trait syntax
Exploring standard library traits

True polymorphism using trait objects

Dispatch
Trait objects
Summary

5. Memory Management and Safety

Programs and memory
How do programs use memory?
Memory management and its kinds

Approaches to memory allocation

The stack
The heap
Memory management pitfalls

Memory safety
Trifecta of memory safety
Ownership
A brief on scopes

Move and copy semantics

Duplicating types via traits
Copy
Clone

Ownership in action
 Borrowing
Borrowing rules
Borrowing in action

Method types based on borrowing

Lifetimes
Lifetime parameters

Lifetime elision and the rules

Lifetimes in user defined types
Lifetime in impl blocks
Multiple lifetimes

Lifetime subtyping
Specifying lifetime bounds on generic types
Pointer types in Rust
References – safe pointers

Raw pointers
Smart pointers
Drop
Deref and DerefMut

Types of smart pointers

Box<T>
Reference counted smart pointers
Rc<T>

Interior mutability
Cell<T>
RefCell<T>
Uses of interior mutability

Summary
6. Error Handling
Error handling prelude
Recoverable errors

Option
Result
Combinators on Option/Result
Common combinators

Using combinators
Converting between Option and Result
 Early returns and the ? operator
Non-recoverable errors

User-friendly panics
Custom errors and the Error trait
Summary
7. Advanced Concepts

Type system tidbits

Blocks and expressions
Let statements
Loop as an expression

Type clarity and sign distinction in numeric types

Type inference
Type aliases
Strings

Owned strings – String

Borrowed strings – &str
Slicing and dicing strings
Using strings in functions

Joining strings
When to use &str versus String ?
Global values
Constants

Statics
Compile time functions – const fn
Dynamic statics using the lazy_static! macro
Iterators

Implementing a custom iterator

Advanced types
Unsized types
Function types

Never type ! and diverging functions

Unions
Cow
Advanced traits

Sized and ?Sized

Borrow and AsRef
 ToOwned
From and Into

Trait objects and object safety

Universal function call syntax
Trait rules
Closures in depth

Fn closures
FnMut closures
FnOnce closures
Consts in structs, enums, and traits

Modules, paths, and imports

Imports

Re-exports

Selective privacy
Advanced match patterns and guards

Match guards

Advanced let destructure

Casting and coercion

Types and memory

Memory alignment

Exploring the std::mem module

Serialization and deserialization using serde

Summary

8. Concurrency

Program execution models

Concurrency

Approaches to concurrency
Kernel-based

User-level

Pitfalls
Concurrency in Rust

Thread basics

Customizing threads
Accessing data from threads

Concurrency models with threads

Shared state model
 Shared ownership with Arc

Mutating shared data from threads

Mutex

Shared mutability with Arc and Mutex

RwLock
Communicating through message passing

Asynchronous channels
Synchronous channels

thread-safety in Rust

What is thread-safety?
Traits for thread-safety

Send

Sync
Concurrency using the actor model

Other crates
Summary

9. Metaprogramming with Macros

What is metaprogramming?
When to use and not use Rust macros

Macros in Rust and their types

Types of macros
Creating your first macro with macro_rules!

Built-in macros in the standard library

macro_rules! token types

Repetitions in macros

A more involved macro – writing a DSL for HashMap initializat

ion

Macro use case – writing tests

Exercises
Procedural macros

Derive macros

Debugging macros
Useful procedural macro crates

Summary
10. Unsafe Rust and Foreign Function Interfaces

What is safe and unsafe really?

 Unsafe functions and blocks
Unsafe traits and implementations

Calling C code from Rust

Calling Rust code from C

Using external C/C++ libraries from Rust

Creating native Python extensions with PyO3

Creating native extensions in Rust for Node.js

Summary

11. Logging
What is logging and why do we need it?

The need for logging frameworks

Logging frameworks and their key features

Approaches to logging

Unstructured logging
Structured logging

Logging in Rust

log – Rust's logging facade

The env_logger

log4rs

Structured logging using slog

Summary

12. Network Programming in Rust

Network programming prelude

Synchronous network I/O

Building a synchronous redis server

Asynchronous network I/O

Async abstractions in Rust

Mio
Futures

Tokio
Building an asynchronous redis server

Summary

13. Building Web Applications with Rust

Web applications in Rust

Typed HTTP with Hyper

Hyper server APIs – building a URL shortener 

 hyper as a client – building a URL shortener client

Web frameworks
Actix-web basics

Building a bookmarks API using Actix-web

Summary
14. Lists, Lists, and More Lists

Linked lists

A transaction log
Adding entries

Log replay
After use

Wrap up

Upsides
Downsides

Doubly linked list

A better transaction log

Examining the log

Reverse
Wrap up

Upsides

Downsides
Skip lists

The best transaction log

The list
Adding data

Leveling up
Jumping around

Thoughts and discussion

Upsides
Downsides

Dynamic arrays

Favorite transactions
Internal arrays

Quick access
Wrap up

Upsides
 Downsides
Summary

Further reading

15. Robust Trees

Binary search tree

IoT device management

More devices

Finding the right one

Finding all devices

Wrap up

Upsides

Downsides
Red-black tree

Better IoT device management

Even more devices

Balancing the tree

Finding the right one, now

Wrap up

Upsides

Downsides
Heaps

A huge inbox
Getting messages in

Taking messages out

Wrap up
Upsides

Downsides

Trie
More realistic IoT device management

Adding paths
Walking

Wrap up

Upsides
Downsides

B-Tree

An IoT database
 Adding stuff

Searching for stuff

Walking the tree

Wrap up

Upsides
Downsides

Graphs

The literal Internet of Things

Neighborhood search

The shortest path

Wrap up
Upsides

Downsides
Summary

16. Exploring Maps and Sets

Hashing
Create your own

Message digestion

Wrap up
Maps

A location cache
The hash function

Adding locations

Fetching locations
Wrap up

Upsides

Downsides
Sets

Storing network addresses

Networked operations

Union

Intersection
Difference

Wrap up

Upsides
Downsides
 Summary
Further reading

17. Collections in Rust

Sequences
Vec<T> and VecDeque<T>

Architecture

Insert
Look up

Remove
LinkedList<T>

Architecture

Insert
Look up

Remove

Wrap up
Maps and sets

HashMap and HashSet

Architecture

Insert

Lookup
Remove

BTreeMap and BTreeSet

Architecture
Insert

Look up

Remove

Wrap up
Summary

Further reading

18. Algorithm Evaluation

The Big O notation

Other people's code

The Big O

Asymptotic runtime complexity

Making your own

Loops
 Recursion
Complexity classes

O(1)

O(log(n))

O(n)

O(n log(n))

O(n²)
O(2n)

Comparison

In the wild

Data structures

Everyday things
Exotic things

Summary

Further reading

19. Ordering Things

From chaos to order

Bubble sort

Shell sort

Heap sort

Merge sort

Quicksort

Summary
Further reading

20. Finding Stuff

Finding the best

Linear searches

Jump search
Binary searching

Wrap up

Summary

Further reading

21. Random and Combinatorial

Pseudo-random numbers

LCG

Wichmann-Hill
 The rand crate

Back to front

Packing bags or the 0-1 knapsack problem

N queens

Advanced problem solving

Dynamic programming

The knapsack problem improved

Metaheuristic approaches
Example metaheuristic – genetic algorithms

Summary

Further reading

22. Algorithms of the Standard Library

Slicing and iteration

Iterator

Slices

Search

Linear search

Binary search

Sorting
Stable sorting

Unstable sorting

Summary

Further reading

Other Books You May Enjoy

Leave a review - let other readers know what you think
Preface
Rust is a powerful language with a rare combination of safety,
speed, and zero-cost abstractions. This Learning Path is filled with
clear and simple explanations of its features along with real-world
examples, demonstrating how you can build robust, scalable, and
reliable programs.

You'll get started with an introduction to Rust data structures,

algorithms, and essential language constructs. Next, you will
understand how to store data using linked lists, arrays, stacks, and
queues. You'll also learn to implement sorting and searching
algorithms, such as Brute Force algorithms, Greedy algorithms,
Dynamic Programming, and Backtracking. As you progress, you'll
pick up on using Rust for systems programming, network
programming, and the web. You'll then move on to discover a variety
of techniques, right from writing memory-safe code, to building
idiomatic Rust libraries, and even advanced macros.

By the end of this Learning Path, you'll be able to implement Rust

for enterprise projects, writing better tests and documentation,
designing for performance, and creating idiomatic Rust code.

This Learning Path includes content from the following Packt

products:

Mastering Rust - Second Edition by Rahul Sharma and Vesa

Kaihlavirta
Hands-On Data Structures and Algorithms with Rust by Claus
Matzinger
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
occupation of hemming huckaback towels of a more than Spartan
coarseness. But something has been already gained by the monthly
martyrdom; Mrs. Dodd and her sister-in-law the ethereal Anastatia
address them as "dear," and they have a bowing acquaintance,
which they energetically attempt to increase, with, the Misses
Warrender.
Within this charmed circle the veterinary surgeon's womankind and
the grocer's daughters also dare to tread, but they are there merely
on sufferance. The line must be drawn somewhere, and the vicar's
wife, as did her predecessor, drew it at that man of blood, the
harmless Kubble, the local butcher. He and the rest of those shut out
from Paradise sought their enjoyment, and a perhaps more
congenial society, at those buttery banquets, the tea meetings of the
local Little Bethel. Thus, as in most country places, Dissent was at a
premium among the humbler classes, and possibly the continued
assertion of their position by the clergy of the State has had a good
deal to do with the spread of Dissent in other villages than King's
Warren.
There were at least a dozen ladies seated round the big table at the
Parsonage. Our friends Lucy and Georgina were among the number,
their simple muslins strikingly contrasting with the more elaborate
garments of the Misses Sleek. Anastatia Dodd fluttered (it is the only
word) round the workers, as they plied their busy needles; she
"gave out" the various garments, or portions thereof, of mysterious
shape; and as she did so whispered her little word of welcome, her
little chirrup of harmless gossip to each. Mrs. Dodd who sat at the
bottom of the table as vice-chairmaness, now opened a thick black
book in which various markers of coloured paper had been inserted.
"I think we are all here," she said, as she put on her spectacles in a
determined manner, and ominously cleared her throat. Nobody
disputed this proposition; the hum of conversation ceased.
"I think we left off at the second appendix, which contained letters
from the wife of the lamented subject of the biography. I will now
continue.
 "'Quashi-Bungo,
"'July 21st, 18—.
"'Dearest Mary,
"'I received your welcome letter and the boxes of stores. You
were quite right when you said that I seemed to be launching
out in the matter of outfit. But I suddenly find myself (under
Providence) a means of civilization to the poor benighted
natives. These unfortunate heathen, until our arrival, had no
sense of propriety. M'Bongo, the great chief of this
neighbourhood, paid a ceremonial visit to my husband. Of
course we understood that he would wear the court costume of
the Kukulokos. I seized the opportunity to watch what I
supposed would be a most interesting interview, from behind a
curtain. Oh Mary, what was my indignation when I saw the
nasty savage enter our dear little morning room! His great shock
head of woolly hair was dyed a bright yellow with quicklime, in
his ears were a pair of huge ear-rings of massive gold that
made my mouth water. (William told me afterwards that they
were worth at least fifty pounds). On his head was the second-
hand hat of some parvenu's coachman, gold lace, cockade and
all. Fancy my horror, dear Mary, my terror, indignation and
astonishment, when I perceived that the rest of his costume
merely consisted of a thick layer of palm oil, with which the
wretch had covered his disgusting body. I saw no more; I need
not say I fainted from the mingled effects of terror, indignation,
and astonishment. On coming to, William told me that the
courtiers, some twenty in number, wore precisely the same
costume, minus the hat and ear-rings.
"'Such, dear Mary, was the degraded condition of M'Bongo and
his court on our arrival; but it has been my happy lot (under
Providence) to change all this, and my endeavours have not
been without even an earthly reward. Only think, Mary,
M'Bongo's ear-rings are now my own, my very own. They will
 reach you by the hands of Mr. Mackenzie, a worldly-minded
Scotch merchant, but honest as to earthly things. On no
account, dear Mary, in disposing of these priceless treasures,
have anything to do with the jewellers, who I am told are
extremely dishonest persons. You had better try to sell them to
the South Kensington Museum as curios, or at some fashionable
bazaar; or failing these, to some wealthy but unworldly person,
who takes an interest in our working in Africa. Do not forget to
mention that they are royal ear-rings.'"

Here one of the Miss Sleeks coughed, but the broad grin on her face
subsided instantly under the severe look which Mrs. Dodd gave her
over her spectacles. After a short pause and a snort of indignation,
the vicar's wife continued:

"'I have been the blessed instrument, dear Mary, of a great

work in this country. M'Bongo and his whole court are now
clothed, I am happy to say, at least to a certain extent. The
greater portion of the royal garments have been obtained from
me; unfortunately I have been compelled to take payment in
cattle and grain. You remember my scarlet rep underskirt, the
one I wore so much during our last winter in dear old England;
with a little alteration at the waist, to which I have added a
green velvet collar, and an additional placket hole (through
which the royal arms are thrust), and wearing my galoshes,
M'Bongo attended service here yesterday for the first time. Both
garment and galoshes were quite useless to me in this hot
country. William was unable to persuade him to remove the
cockaded hat, which he, in his benighted way, looks upon as a
royal crown; but as my husband's is the only other hat in the
country, this does not perhaps much matter. William has thus
been happily able to report to the society the approaching
conversion of M'Bongo and his imminent civilization. The poor
king, however, complains much of the heat, and I am sorry to
say only wears these robes on ceremonial occasions. Still it has
been a great, great comfort to us both.
 "'Yours lovingly,
"'Amelia Rees.'

"Many such interesting letters were received from our self-sacrificing

countrywoman up to the death of her husband and fellow-worker.
The sad end of the mission to King M'Bongo has been narrated in
the body of this work. But Mrs. Rees was loth to leave her sphere in
Africa, and is now happily married to Alonzo P. Jones, an energetic
coloured Baptist minister, of Cape Coast Castle."
There was a universal sigh of relief.
"I wonder whether she wears the ear-rings?" remarked the elder
Miss Sleek pertly.
"Perhaps they were the attraction to Alonzo P. Jones," suggested her
sister, as she triumphantly folded and smoothed her second
completed towel.
"It's always the way with them," sighed Miss Grains, who suffered
from a complication of romantic tendency and very tight stays. "It's
the money that attracts them, and possibly Mrs. Rees might have
been Mrs. Rees to the end of the chapter, if it hadn't been for the
ear-rings and the sale of her old clothes for countless flocks and
herds."
"Doubtless Miss Grains speaks from painful experience, my dears,"
retorted Mrs. Dodd, with a severe look at her victim; "but you may
be quite certain that the acquisition of the ear-rings and the sale of
the clothes were but the blessed means to an end, a mere spoiling
of the Egyptians, that the work might progress."
"In fact, a robbing of Peter to pay Paul," suggested Lucy Warrender,
but without raising her eyes from her work.
The needle of the archdruidress broke, as she shook her head
viciously at the scoffer. "Ah, my dear, you shouldn't laugh at sacred
things," said the elder lady.
"But I don't look upon Mrs. Rees as a sacred thing," cried Lucy, not
to be intimidated.
"A person no one would wish to know," chimed in Miss Sleek.
"Ah, but think how she loved the blacks, and gave herself up to
them," cooed the vicaress, in a tone intended at the same time to
convey instruction and reproof.
"Nasty thing," retorted Lucy, with biting sarcasm. "I suppose it was
because she loved the blacks and gave herself up to them, that she
married the energetic negro ranter with the dreadful name."
This proved too much for Mrs. Dodd. "I am surprised and ashamed,
Lucy Warrender, at your attempt to depreciate the noble self-
immolation of dear Mrs. Jones. Of course it is a great privilege to be
married to a clergyman, a very precious privilege, but when he is a
negro and a Baptist—hum—I suppose I must say clergyman, then a
woman's life must be indeed a martyrdom."
"I suppose he beats her?" asked one of the draper's daughters of
the experienced Mrs. Wurzel.
"I sincerely trust he does," broke in the irreverent Lucy.
Just at this moment the door was hurriedly opened, and the
Reverend John Dodd entered the room. He was a stout man, his
principal characteristics being an intense pleasure in ladies' society,
and an obliviousness of the fact that he was no longer the pale slim
young curate of earlier days. A life of almost absolute inactivity,
which was forced upon him by his wife's jealousy of the rest of the
sex, had rendered the muscular young Dodd of Oriel a perfect Daniel
Lambert. Little irreverent boys from the village corners were in the
habit of shouting "Jumbo" at the poor vicar. He was accustomed to
pursue them, but in vain; a stern chase is proverbially a long chase,
and poor Mr. Dodd's futile efforts to capture his persecutors had
become a bye-word. But the Reverend John Dodd's weak point, the
red rag to the bull, the bee in his bonnet, was his devotion to the
fair sex. Handsome Jack Dodd, as he had been once called, in his
undergraduate and curate days, had been accustomed to find his
attentions very highly appreciated. The habit grew on him, love-sick
maidens sighed, and love-sick maidens wept, but all in vain.
Handsome Jack Dodd, a very clerical butterfly, flitted from flower to
flower. His admiration was freely, openly, ardently expressed for
every variety of female beauty. Was Jack Dodd a flirt? Not a bit of it;
he was merely a fancier, just as there are pigeon fanciers and
poultry fanciers; so Handsome Jack Dodd was a fancier, an admirer,
a worshipper of the entire female sex: that is to say, the select
specimens of it. What he could have seen in Canon Drivel's daughter
who can say? though, when he married Cecilia Drivel, she was a
well-known light of London. She it was who, in the severity of her
classic and rather imperial beauty, had posed to Mahlstick, R.A., for
his well-known picture of Judith with the head of Holofernes. Alas!
for poor Jack Dodd, he had assisted at the numerous sittings. He it
was who had had the honour of sitting (that is to say lying prone on
a bedstead of the period) for the headless trunk of Holofernes. To lie
prone on a bedstead of any period, and have nothing to do for two
mortal hours but gaze on the classic proportions of any lady—for
Mahlstick was a strict disciplinarian and discouraged conversation—is
enough to seal the fate of any man, even if he were of a less
inflammable type than Handsome Jack. Miss Drivel was her father's
only daughter, and ambitious; but four seasons, during which she
was much admired, but never once received a serious offer, had
warned the waning beauty not to neglect her opportunities. Miss
Drivel was a lady of no imagination and strong will; the interest of
her father, a notorious pluralist, was very great: Cecilia Drivel was
determined to marry Dodd. She did so, and her victim became her
obedient slave, and was duly inducted to the fat living of King's
Warren. In all things Jack Dodd, as the weaker vessel, yielded to his
wife. He had but one drawback in her eyes, he retained his passion,
his innocent passion, for the fair sex. At the shrine of beauty he
remained a constant and ecstatic worshipper. This was Mrs. Dodd's
cross, and she had to bear it. An idle life at King's Warren
Parsonage, and frequent dinner parties, for the Reverend John Dodd
was a popular man, had caused Handsome Jack to expand into a
very Falstaff. Alas, anxiety had had precisely the reverse effect upon
the vicar's wife. The once statuesque "Judith" had disappeared, and
Mrs. Dodd's characteristics were now high principle and bone.
"Busy as usual, my dear," said the vicar to his wife, as he proceeded
to welcome each member of the female bevy in turn, devoting
perhaps a little more time than was necessary to handsome Miss
Warrender and her cousin.
Mrs. Dodd closed the thick black book with a slap. "I suppose work
is over now for the day; you really should not intrude on our Dorcas,
John," she said in a severe tone.
"My dear, it is my duty to encourage my parishioners in good works,
nay, it is my pleasure," replied the parson.
"No one doubts it, Mr. Dodd," said the vicaress in an icy manner.
But Mrs. Dodd was evidently in a minority. The ladies crowded round
their popular vicar. It is easy to spoil a man, and the Reverend John
Dodd had been much spoilt by his parishioners, and seemed to like
the process.
And now a whispered conference took place between the Misses
Sleek. With smiles and conscious blushes, the elder sister addressed
the vicar. "Oh, dear Mr. Dodd, we do so want you to do us a favour,"
she faltered.
"Granted, my dear young lady, granted before it is asked."
Mrs. Dodd vainly sought to fix her husband with a freezing look, and
gazed appealingly at old Mrs. Wurzel, but that experienced matron
had been present at many similar scenes, and was rather amused
than otherwise, to watch the discomfiture of the vicar's imperious
wife. Mrs. Wurzel's eagle eye detected the little parcel which the
younger Miss Sleek hesitatingly attempted to hold towards the vicar.
"It is our own work, dear Mr. Dodd," she said, "and we hope, we do
hope, we do so hope that you will accept them."
"And wear them too," chimed in her sister.
In an elaborate box, from which Miss Sleek rapidly tore the paper in
which it was wrapped, and hurriedly opened, lay a dozen bands of
the latest ecclesiastical fashion.
"Oh ladies, dear ladies, so you equip your faithful knight for the fray;
accept my grateful thanks, my very grateful thanks," sighed the
vicar.
"So pleased you like them, dear Mr. Dodd," chorused the
stockbroker's daughters.
The triumphs of decorative millinery were passed from hand to
hand.
"They never made these," muttered old Mrs. Wurzel to herself, as
she critically held one up to the light. "The minxes," she inwardly
added. Mrs. Wurzel was quite right; they had been supplied,
regardless of cost, from Messrs. Rochet and Stole's well-known
establishment.
"Ah," purred Lucy Warrender, "the ladies used to arm their knights
with their own fair hands in the days of chivalry."
The parson laughed. "And have the days of chivalry departed,
ladies?" he said, protruding his head, much as the unconscious
aldermanic turtle is said to protrude his, when awaiting the fatal
stroke.
Conny Sleek, the younger and bolder of the two, looked at her
sister; the elder girl nodded maliciously.
Conny stepped smilingly forward, and proceeded to affix the band
around the vicar's massive throat.
Fat Jack Dodd was in his glory; "Jumbo" was in the seventh heaven
of bliss. A smile of beatitude spread over his enormous countenance
during the process. But it suddenly disappeared, as a sharp slam of
the door announced the sudden departure of his indignant wife, the
outraged Cecilia. Will it ever dawn on Mrs. Dodd's mind, that
parsons, even married parsons, are but men?
 CHAPTER IV.
WALLS END CASTLE.
Walls End Castle was the seat of John, Earl of Pit Town. It had come
into the family through the marriage of a former earl with the
heiress of the great Chudleigh family. It was one of England's show
places. The great park which surrounded it was one of the most
celebrated in all England, celebrated alike for its size and its beauty.
The entry to the park was never denied to artists; and they, their
easels, and their umbrellas, might be seen at the various well-known
"bits" all through the summer and autumn. The boys of the
Elizabethan Grammar School had also the privilege of roaming in the
park; and time had been when the people of the neighbouring town
and the public generally were admitted; but excursionists had
arrived in crowds, they had destroyed the poetry of the place with
pieces of greasy newspaper, broken bottles, ham bones, and the
remains of their Homeric banquets. They had shouted and whistled
in the great picture galleries, they had written their names upon the
window panes, they had committed all the innumerable offences
that such people do commit; but the final straw which determined
the present earl to exclude them, was their having played at the
game of Kiss-in-the-ring, one Whit-Monday, directly under the
windows of the noble owner. After that memorable day, Lord Pit
Town kept his castle and his park to himself.
His lordship during the earlier part of his reign never came near
Walls End Castle. The widowed earl travelled continuously in
Southern Europe. He travelled, and he collected pictures, statuary,
gems, plate, china—nothing came amiss to him . But John, Earl of
Pit Town, was wise in his generation; he remembered that "if you
sup with the devil, it is best to use a long spoon." He never
purchased without an expert's aid; consequently the immense
collection he had gradually accumulated was free from rubbish.
Nothing doubtful or "reputed" ever arrived in the huge packing-cases
consigned to Walls End Castle. For years his lordship was seldom
seen in London, the great house in Grosvenor Square was never
opened. When Lord Pit Town was in England, he stayed at Long's
Hotel. Friends he had none; his doctor and his courier were the
people who saw most of him. But as years rolled on his lordship
grew tired of travel, his well-known figure, in the short blue cloak
and velvet collar, was seen no more in the great picture galleries of
Europe. Lord Pit Town now commenced the work of his life, the
building of the new galleries at Walls End Castle. Winter and summer
the little old man, for he was over sixty now, might be seen in the
blue cloak, inspecting the growth of the vast galleries with a critical
eye. Emilius Wolff, his German architect, was his constant
companion. The great Mr. Buskin paid him a yearly visit; on these
occasions Dr. Wolff (for Wolff was a doctor of philosophy) joined his
lordship and the great art-critic at dinner. At length the great Pit
Town collection was housed as it deserved to be. Its principal feature
was the picture gallery. This was a vast building of classical design,
resembling a Grecian temple. Dr. Wolff was a Berliner, and the
tradition of Berlin is that a picture gallery should resemble a Greek
temple. The vast galleries were probably among the best in Europe.
They were lighted and heated to perfection. But the great galleries
had one peculiarity; at irregular intervals along the wall were blank
spaces of varying size; in the centre of each space was a label in his
lordship's own writing: on these labels were inscribed the names of
various great painters. It was now the only business of the Earl of Pit
Town to gradually fill these spaces, each with a representative
masterpiece of the artist indicated. Possibly John, Earl of Pit Town,
notwithstanding his boundless wealth, could hardly hope to
complete such a work in his own lifetime. The great Mr. Abrahams
had an unlimited commission to secure at any price, a long list of
great works. There was but one condition attached, any purchase
must be above suspicion. But even the great Mr. Abrahams, on one
notable occasion at least, had been deceived. A new acquisition,
purchased from the collection of a wealthy amateur in the Rue
Drouot, had arrived at Walls End Castle. A furious controversy
concerning this picture had arisen among art critics. Herr
Vandenbossche had defended the authenticity of the work, but old
Mr. Creeps had demolished him in an exhaustive article in the Friday
Review. Old Mr. Creeps was considerably astonished at receiving an
almost affectionate letter from Lord Pit Town. His lordship thanked
him for the article, and requested what he termed "the exceeding
great pleasure of receiving you here;" the letter was dated from
Walls End Castle. Old Mr. Creeps accepted the invitation for a couple
of days. On his arrival at the local railway station he was met by his
lordship in person. Lord Pit Town, one of the proudest and most
exclusive of men, treated old Mr. Creeps with marked deference. At
dinner, at which John Buskin and Dr. Wolff were present,
conversation ran purely upon art matters. Old Mr. Creeps, the critic,
had never enjoyed himself so much; the sitting was prolonged till
the small hours. Next day, at noon, the council of four sat in solemn
conclave upon Lord Pit Town's latest purchase. Old Mr. Creeps
triumphantly proved his case. Lord Pit Town looked at Mr. Buskin. Mr.
Buskin nodded. "Well, Wolff?" remarked his lordship.
"It is onhappy, most onhappy," replied the doctor of philosophy, "but
I fear it is drue, too drue."
"What will your lordship do with it?" said old Mr. Creeps.
"You shall see," replied that eminent collector with a smile, as he
advanced to the easel on which the doubtful picture stood. His
lordship opened his penknife, carefully and quietly he cut the canvas
out of the frame, he folded it in half; again he cut it, as though he
were cutting up a sheet of brown paper; he repeated the process
several times, then, handing the pieces to the German, he merely
remarked, "Oblige me by burning these, Wolff."
"They shall make a vamous blaze," said the philosopher, as he left
the room to carry out the sentence.
"Would that all collectors could afford to do the same, Lord Pit
Town," remarked John Buskin with a sigh.
"Your lordship has done a noble act," cheerfully cried old Mr. Creeps,
as he rubbed his hands. "Of course you will trounce Abrahams.
When the artistic world hears of this morning's work, Lord Pit Town,
it will know what it owes to England's most distinguished amateur."
"No, no, Mr. Creeps. I must ask you to keep this business a secret;
no cheap popularity for me," replied the old lord.
"Cheap!" echoed the critic, as he raised his eyes to the skylight.
"Good heavens! he calls it cheap," whispered the old man to John
Buskin.
"His lordship is right," was the oracle's oracular reply.
Men said that Lord Pit Town was eccentric. Gossips said that he was
mad. Perhaps after all he was only honest according to his lights.
Next day the handsome frame, carefully packed, was returned to Mr.
Abrahams; it was duly deducted from his account. But he got his
cheque for the price of the picture, and his very liberal commission.
In vain did the artists who frequented Walls End Park attempt to
stalk the old nobleman in his lonely walks. They never succeeded in
selling him a picture from the easel. "Capital, capital," his lordship
would remark with great alacrity, when there was no other way of
escape. The eldest Miss Solomonson, the most talented member of
that clever Hebrew family—she is great at animals—tried to shoot
the wary old lord with her well-known picture of "The Timid Fawn,"
but she ignominiously failed.
"The old wretch called me 'my dear,' and said he liked my sky, when
I hadn't even indicated the sky," she indignantly remarked to her
amused father.
Miss Solomonson's masses of jetty hair, and the fire from the glances
of her oriental eyes, were said to have melted the stony hearts even
of dealers who were her co-religionists. But with all her advantages
Miss Solomonson failed with the old lord, and she abuses him to this
day. She had her revenge, however, for in her well-known Academy
picture of the following year, "Balaam and his Ass," the angel was
represented by a glorified portrait of Miss Solomonson herself, who
glared down in an indignant manner upon the terrified and kneeling
Balaam. Old Mr. Creeps and the other art-critics chuckled as they
recognized the angelic portrait; but they chuckled still more, when
they saw that the terrified Balaam was but an ill-natured caricature
of John, Earl of Pit Town.
"I'd have done him as the ass, you know, only he was too ugly. I
hope he'll like the figures better than the sky this time," snorted the
indignant Hebrew maiden.
The curse of the Earl of Pit Town's life was the so-called gallery of
old masters in Walls End Castle. He couldn't sell them; he couldn't
burn them; he was even compelled to insure them, to his intense
disgust. For when a former lord had inherited Walls End Castle from
the Chudleighs, old masters had been the fashion; and the
purchaser, delighted with his toy, had made the pictures heirlooms.
But the present lord had shut up what to him was a mere chamber
of horrors. He and Dr. Wolff had actually composed a catalogue
raisonné of the entire collection, in which the fictitious nature of the
claims to respect of each monstrous daub was triumphantly
demonstrated. The sprawling Rubenses were shown to be but
inferior copies, the Paul Veronese was proved a transparent sham,
while the great Vandyck, representing the Martyr-King seated on a
gigantic grey horse, was demonstrated to be but a wretched replica
of a miserable original. There they hung, the old Pit Town heirlooms,
grimy with dirt; for as the old lord used to say, "To have cleaned
them would have been only to make their natural hideousness still
more apparent." Each picture bore a label, giving a true description
of the once-honoured gem. Alas! these veracious tablets cruelly
contrasted with the flourishes of the old housekeeper's descriptions.
Two only of his heirlooms had stood the crucial inspections of Lord
Pit Town and his experts. These were the great Raphael, and the
celebrated portrait of Barbara Chudleigh, the well-known beauty of
Charles the Second's time, by Sir Peter Lely. Wicked Bab Chudleigh,
as a wood nymph, simpered upon the walls of the new gallery in
which the Chudleigh Raphael occupied the post of honour.
We have seen what manner of man John, Earl of Pit Town, was. We
have seen how his heirlooms troubled him not a little. We have seen
how he passed his life with the faithful Wolff at Walls End Castle,
patiently waiting to fill the numerous blanks on the walls of the new
galleries, in fact to accomplish his destiny. For if ever there was a
born collector, a real collector, to whom the actual intrinsic value of a
painting was absolutely of no importance, it was John, Earl of Pit
Town. And this indifference to the value at the hammer of their
acquisitions, marks the distinction between the genuine collector or
connoisseur and the ruck of the people who buy pictures; the bulk of
whom are after all but amateur dealers. When the successful stock-
jobber leaves off dealing in shares and takes to art, he merely deals
in another more or less intangible security of very fluctuating value.
With childlike confidence he follows the advice of some more or less
honest dealer. He buys from the easel with a hope of a "rapid rise."
Works are knocked down to him at Christie's simply because they
are apparently cheap, and he is carrying out the old axiom of his
trade, "always buy rubbish." In the same way he is perpetually
buying and selling pictures upon the time honoured maxim of Capel
Court, "nail your profit, and cut your loss." He will even go so far as
to develop a taste for a particular master in the hope that he may
succeed ultimately in making a "corner" in that special security. And
the sole dream of such a man is the result in pounds, shillings and
pence of the auction that will inevitably take place at his death. The
possession of a certain number of valuable works of art confers an
amount of distinction upon their proprietor, and Brown, who as
Brown is a nobody, becomes a somebody as the owner of the Brown
collection. Of this fact Manchester "men" and Liverpool "gentlemen"
are well aware. But, as has been seen, a deep gulf divided these
amateur dealers from John, Earl of Pit Town.
The old earl's property, the source of his wealth, as from his title the
reader will have shrewdly guessed, was in collieries. With the
management of these, however, the Earl of Pit Town did not trouble
himself. His various agents paid yearly increasing sums into that
aristocratic bank in the Strand, which never allows interest on
deposits, which never advises any investment except Consols, and
whose clerks from time immemorial have worn white chokers.
For many years it had been the old lord's habit to entertain those
members of his family, never exceeding four in number, who were
nearest to the title. Twice a year the formal invitation was sent out
by the old nobleman to his only son, and to his two nephews. Once
in the height of the summer and once at Christmas these invitations
were issued. They were never refused, for their recipients looked
upon them much in the light of a royal command.
Lord Hetton, the earl's only son, and his heir, was always one of the
guests on these occasions; to him it was an exceedingly unpleasant
time; for father and son had quarrelled years ago, the old lord
having sternly declined to increase his son's very liberal allowance of
five thousand a year. A man can do a great deal on five thousand a
year, but not much is left for the annuitant when he is possessed by
the idea that, some day or other, it will be his good fortune to win
the Derby. In all other things but race-horses, Hetton was a man of
frugal mind. For the sake of his stud he had remained a bachelor;
for he felt that were he to marry, yet another obstacle would be
raised to the attainment of his ambition. Ever since his majority Lord
Hetton had annually entered a colt in the great race. His
nominations had on two occasions even run into places. Four years
ago Hetton's horse had been first favourite, but it was ignominiously
beaten. This very year, that rank outsider, Dark Despair, who,
starting at sixty to one, had just been beaten on the post, was the
property of his persevering, but unlucky, lordship. Twice a year did
Lord Hetton present himself at Walls End Castle. He used to walk
through the park, and note with pleasure the care that his father
bestowed on the gigantic property. It pleased him to see how well
kept was everything about the place. It gratified him to find his
opinions deferentially listened to by the steward, and to perceive
that year by year the family solicitors treated him with a still greater
obsequiousness. But in his heart, he cursed what he called his
father's folly, as he looked at the new galleries; and he would have
liked to stamp and swear, as at every visit he dutifully admired each
new and costly acquisition of the old earl's. He would walk
discontentedly up and down the old picture gallery where hung the
worthless heirlooms that, in the ordinary course of nature, must one
day be his own: and he wondered whether he should ever possess
the Golconda contained in the new galleries. Perhaps it was only
human nature that caused him to watch, and watch in vain, for any
apparent sign of increasing infirmity in the old earl. But he never
quarrelled with his father, for on the morning of his departure from
the paternal roof, he was accustomed to receive a very considerable
solatium to his wounded feelings, in the shape of a heavy cheque on
the bank in the Strand. The amount of this cheque was invariable; it
kept Hetton on his good behaviour, and he had learned to look upon
it as part of his allowance. On one memorable occasion he had
presumed to remonstrate with his father on the enormous cost of his
last artistic acquisitions; the earl had merely shrugged his shoulders.
That visit had been indignantly remembered by Lord Hetton, for
when the venerable connoisseur bade his lordship good-bye, there
had been no cheque, though there was no change in his lordship's
manner towards his son.
Mr. Haggard, of the Home Office, a faultlessly-dressed gentleman,
whose principal characteristic was his brilliant whist, which it was
said brought him in a certain but variable income, was the next heir
in direct succession; he was the nephew of his lordship, and a
childless bachelor. His presence, also, always graced Walls End
Castle at the regulation periods.
Mr. John Haggard, of Ash Priory, the father of big Reginald, was
always the third guest. John Haggard, the second nephew of Lord
Pit Town, was a J.P. for his county, of the Shakespearian type. He
was fond of good living, his eye was severe, and his beard of sober
cut. He embodied the law, in his own immediate neighbourhood, to
the intense terror of local delinquents. He had meted out stern
justice to his own son, when he had banished big Reginald to South
America; but he had his virtues. He lived within his means, he
entertained his neighbours at rather heavy dinners, he gave his wife
and daughters a fortnight in town during the season, and he
habitually took the first prize at the county show for black pigs. He
never forgot that he was third in succession to the title. He never
doubted his capacity, should he ever be called to occupy the position
of a hereditary legislator; and now that his son had returned a
considerably wealthier man than he himself was, he chuckled, when
in his mind's eye he thought of him as some day bearing the
courtesy title of Lord Hetton.
The earl and the doctor of philosophy sat at breakfast in a little oak
wainscoted room whose windows commanded a full view of the new
galleries. In this little room the galleries had been designed; the
windows had looked upon the commencement of the great work. An
army of navvies had dug out the earth for the gigantic foundations.
Then arose a very forest of scaffold-poles. Two huge steam engines
had snorted and puffed for three whole years. A colossal steam
"traveller" had ceaselessly carried great blocks of stone and long
steel girders from point to point. The clink of the stone-masons'
chisels had resounded year after year from morning till night. Then
came the carpenters, and the noise of their busy hammers had been
deafening. When not actually on the works, Lord Pit Town had
viewed them from the window of his favourite room. But scaffold
poles, steam engines and labourers had disappeared; the rubbish
had been cleared away, and the huge white block stood out in the
clear air; dominating the grey weather-stained gables of Walls End
Castle much as Aladdin's palace is said to have dominated the more
ancient but less magnificent residence of his father-in-law the
Emperor of China. There was an air of spick-and-spanness about the
whole thing that annoyed the earl. The new galleries had been
finished four whole years, but they still looked painfully fresh.
"I hear that I am to have the pleasure of welcoming another of your
lordship's relatives this year," said the doctor of philosophy to the
earl.
"Yes; Wolff 'where the carcase is there shall the eagles be gathered
together.' I have kept them waiting for some years, and I don't feel a
bit like dying, Wolff. Though I confess I dread Hetton's critical
examination. He always looks me over in his stud-groom sort of way.
But I suppose, as he is my nearest relative, it is but natural he
should be anxious about my health. As for the young fellow, I have
never even seen him. My nephew wished to bring him, and he is
about to marry. In fact he and his father will be the only married
men among my direct heirs."
"And does the young man love art?"
"No. I think his talents are confined to spending money and getting
into trouble. But my nephew tells me that he is now going to
forswear sack and live cleanly."
"That is what I cannot understand, my lord. I had a cold the other
day, a most severe cold. I tell the young man to bring me a cup of
sack; he sends to me the butler. I say to him, 'Give me the sack.' He
replied to me, 'I cannot do that, sir, it's only his lordship can do that.'
What is, then, this precious drink I read of in my Shakespeare—so
precious, that your lordship will not trust him to his butler? And now
you tell me that your nephew will drink him no more. I never see
your lordship drink him. Has, then, your lordship forsworn him too?"
His lordship laughed as he finished his coffee. "No one drinks sack
now-a-days, Wolff, and the quotation was merely figurative; while
the other sack the butler talked about was but a vulgarism used by
his class. You will never get that either, in my lifetime at least."
"I understand it not. But your grand-nephew, the young man, it
pleases you that he shall marry?"
"It is indifferent to me, Wolff; if I can only live to fill the vacant wall
spaces in the new galleries, I can seriously say, après moi le déluge.
But here comes the first arrival."
One of his lordship's close carriages was coming up the great
chestnut avenue; Lord Hetton was its sole occupant. As the old
butler received him in the hall, with the deference due to his
master's son, the sporting nobleman laughingly commiserated him.
"We have neither of us any luck, Russell, as usual," he said. "I
thought I had a real good thing this time. As usual, I put you on for
a fiver, Russell; as usual, it didn't come off." Lord Hetton was of a
frugal mind. He was continually presenting innumerable imaginary
fivers to little people. He was always putting them on for them at
tremendous odds, but the good things never came off, and the
recipients of his favours were never informed of his munificence till
after the event.
"I most humbly thank your lordship," replied the butler with an air of
profound gratitude, as he chuckled in his sleeve. For the old man too
was of a sporting turn. He knew all about Dark Despair, and annually
he had carefully laid the odds against Lord Hetton's nomination for
the great race.
"The same rooms, I suppose, Russell?"
"Always the same rooms, your lordship."
Lord Hetton mechanically proceeded to his quarters.
On joining the earl, father and son met as if they had parted only
the previous day. The pursuits of neither interested the other. Art
and horse-flesh were subjects tabooed by mutual consent. A
desultory conversation on politics, in which neither took the slightest
interest, was a safe neutral ground. It was with a feeling of relief on
both sides that the arrival of Mr. Haggard, of the Home Office, was
announced. His lordship retired shortly to his study, Hetton and Mr.
Haggard betook themselves to the billiard-room.
At dinner the family party was increased by the presence of John
Haggard and his son, both of whom were well received by the earl,
who now saw his grand-nephew for the first time. Big Reginald's
magnificent physique made its due impression; his father was
evidently proud of him, and the old lord congratulated the young
man on his approaching marriage.
Reginald Haggard was not diffident, he truckled to no one. He
frankly avowed to his grand uncle that he knew nothing of art. When
his lordship retired early, as was his custom, the other men
adjourned once more to the billiard-room. Big Reginald took their
lives at pool, and pocketed their half-crowns in an easy genial way,
which almost made losing a pleasure.
During the fortnight in which Lord Pit Town entertained his relatives,
nothing occurred to mar the harmony of the meeting. During that
fortnight Big Reginald got on friendly terms with everybody.
Nothing seemed to overawe or intimidate the ingenuous youth. He
saw with evident pleasure the outward and visible signs of the old
earl's immense wealth. As he looked round upon the priceless
collection in the new galleries, as he thought of the old nobleman's
huge estates, he remembered that the investment that Mr. Hyam
Hyams had made in his own contingent post obits was probably a
good one; he prudently determined to pay off the Jew as soon as he
should realize his American properties. In his own mind he
determined already that, should he ever be his great-uncle's
successor, he would distribute the great Pit Town collection to the
four winds of heaven. But he made one mental reservation, as he
stood before Sir Peter Lely's masterpiece, and gazed on the lovely
features and roving eye of "Wicked Bab Chudleigh:" "A monstrous
fine girl. Yes, I should stick to her." If Reginald Haggard did come
into the estates after all, and did "stick to her," she would be the first
one of her sex he had ever stuck to.
Walls End Castle, when the party broke up, returned to its normal
state. The earl and the philosopher continued the even tenour of
their ways. Lord Hetton took away his big cheque, which was duly
honoured at the old-fashioned bank in the Strand. A cheque for a
like amount had been given to Reginald Haggard by the earl. "Buy
something for your wife that-is-to-be," he said to his grand-nephew,
as he handed him the folded paper. "Warrender was one of my
friends years ago, when I had friends," said the old nobleman with a
sigh "They are good old-fashioned people the Warrenders, and
honest. Don't thank me," he said, as he shook hands with the young
fellow. "Of course you will come here with your father in the winter. I
shall hope to see the new Mrs. Haggard too," he added. "Good-bye.
I shall send you a formal invitation."
When big Reginald told his father of this interview, as they were
driving to the station, Justice Haggard did not conceal his
satisfaction. "He will outlive all of us, my boy, Hetton into the
bargain. Who knows but you may be one day Earl of Pit Town? Keep
in with the old man if you can. His place, as you have seen, is
perfect, all but the piggeries. He doesn't go in for pigs though, he
goes in for pictures—every man to his taste. I prefer pigs."
 CHAPTER V.
AT THE PANDEMONIUM CLUB.
It was Wednesday night; over forty men sat down to the house-
dinner at the Pandemonium Club. As usual the dinner was
recherché, for the Pandemonium chef enjoyed a world-wide
reputation. It is to be feared that the attractions of the house-dinner
were not the sole inducement to many of those sitting there. A
house-dinner always secured a large party in the card-room
afterwards, and though the Pandemonium was a celebrated dining
club, it was notoriously also a gambling one. Though the
Pandemonium was a gambler's paradise, and many scandals had
occurred there, yet the dirty linen had been always washed at home,
and the exact details of these affairs had never leaked out. Young
Spooner, of the Foreign Office, Sir John Spooner's, the Warwickshire
baronet, eldest son, had certainly left London as fourth secretary to
the Teheran Embassy, where he still remained; while Rolls, a
briefless barrister, who was fond of backing himself at the whist
table, had taken his name off the books, though he had honourably
paid his losses, and suddenly accepted the not over-brilliant position
of an Assistant-Judgeship on the Gold Coast: pay there was high and
promotion rapid, but no one had ever been known to live long
enough to take a pension.
Magnums of the driest and most expensive champagne seemed to
be the favourite beverage. But the whisters as a rule drank claret, in
anticipation of the more serious business that was sure to follow the
weekly house-dinner. Captains Spotstroke and Pool were equally
careful; the rest of those present drank freely. The elaborate dessert
was followed by a general move. Old Sir Peter Growler and Canon
Drivel, D.D., retired to the smoke-room, where they retailed their
old, but exceedingly improper anecdotes, to a select circle of the
very youngest men. In the billiard-room, pool at half sovereign lives,
was commenced, and promised to run into the small hours—a sure
harvest for Captains Spotstroke and Pool. In confidence it may be
said that Spotstroke's little place in the south of Ireland only existed
in his own imagination, his rents being entirely derived from his skill
with his cue, and the certain income that he extracted from the very
safe little book that he made on most of the great events of the
year. A small contingent of the members hurried off to applaud the
successful comic opera of the hour.
The card-room attracted its usual habitués, these sat down to whist;
and if an unskilled unfortunate joined the fatal tables, he soon had
reason to regret his temerity. Pound points were habitually played at
the Pandemonium, and as the evening went on, though the points
never varied, betting among the players and the "gallery" usually
became extremely heavy. Discussions never arose at the whist tables
of this rather fast club, for the players had Cavendish and Pole at
their fingers' ends. General Pepper, C.B., had raised his eyes in
unfeigned astonishment and horror, when an old Worcestershire
baronet, his partner, once made a reference to Hoyle, and professed
himself unacquainted with "the Peter." Needless to say, the
Worcestershire baronet had returned to his ancestral acres a sadder
but a wiser man. He showed his wisdom in giving the Pandemonium
card-room a very wide berth for the rest of his days. He
subsequently had the good sense to join the comic opera division,
and to finish his evenings with the undeniable oysters, for which the
Pandemonium is so celebrated. No one was ever seen at this well-
known club after lunch time or before dinner, save a few miserable
veterans, to whom perpetual whist was a necessity. The bulk of the
servants even, only commenced their daily duties at dusk, while the
steward never appeared till the dinner hour; but then he, poor man,
had to be to the fore all night, for it was a stern rule in the card-
room that I O U's were never seen, the play being always for ready
money, in notes and gold. Mr. Levison, the amiable steward
(originally from Hamburg), had a very Pactolus ready for the
accommodation, for a consideration, of his numerous masters, in his
iron safe. Levison's relations think he will cut up well at his death;
Levison's relations are right.
It is one in the morning. Though it is in the height of summer the
Pandemonium card-room is cool; they burn wax candles here, and
gas is absolutely banished from this particular chamber of the club,
where fortunes are sometimes lost and won. In most club card-
rooms smoking is not permitted, but at the Pandemonium it is the
fashion to smoke everywhere. One whist table only is at work;
General Pepper and three old hands of the same kidney are hard at
it. The four old men rub their blear old eyes at the conclusion of
each deal, and then pull down their faultless cuffs over their eager
and bony old hands. The card table profitably occupies some six to
eight hours daily of these old fellows' attention. There is not much
harm in it after all. Probably none of them are very much the better
or very much the worse at the end of the year; their sole ambition is
the saving of a game, particularly when there is a good "gallery" to
admire their efforts. One dreaded Nemesis awaits these men—the
inevitable day when memory will begin to fail, and they shall trump
their partner's best card. Or the still more horrible apprehension of
dimness of sight; for a pair of wicked old eyes will not last for ever;
then the unhappy old player will begin to revoke, and find himself
perforce relegated to "bumble-puppy," or to whiskey-and-water and
solemn slumbers in the smoke -room, or, more horrible still, the
prolonged society of Sir Peter Growler and Canon Drivel, D.D.
Rule XXXV. of the club states that "Cards, chess and billiards may be
played. The sum played for shall not exceed one pound points; no
play is permitted after two a.m." Rule XXXVI. says, "No game of
hazard shall on any account be played in the club-house." Rule
XXXVII. sternly goes on to assert that "any deviation from the last
two rules shall be attended with expulsion." Truly good and moral
regulations. But these Draconic laws are, unfortunately, a dead
letter. Nothing is said in them about bets. As in all clubs, only
members enter the card-room; and most of the members come to
"flutter," as they term it, and to "flutter" heavily.
In the centre of the room is an oval table; some dozen men are
sitting at it; as many more stand behind their chairs. Two many-
branched candelabra, holding wax lights, brilliantly illuminate the
game. Young Lamb, who six months ago ran a "tick" for "tuck" at
Eton, and trembled coram pædagogo, sits, his eyes bloodshot, as,
with nails driven into his palms, he watches, in an anguish of
excitement, the movements of the dealer. Young Lamb's big cigar
has been out long ago; but he pulls hard at it, wholly unaware of the
fact. It is easy enough to distinguish, among those who smoke at
least, the more innocent from the habitual gamblers; the cigars of
these latter, even at the most exciting crises, are steadily smoked at
a uniform rate, while the new hand is continually taking a light, as
often blowing sudden vast clouds, or his cigar all unknown to him
goes out, as has been described. Your young player, too, sits with his
feet tucked tightly under his chair; he never moves them, and
consequently suffers much from that hitherto undescribed disease—
that awful pain across the knees, which, for want of a better name,
may be called "gamblers' rheumatism." Are you quite sure you have
never suffered from this rather common disorder, gentle reader, at
least, if you be of the male sex? Perhaps you may remember having
occasionally walked home through the rain, utterly cleared out,
without even the needful silver for a cab, with a dry throat, and
finding out for the first time what "gamblers' rheumatism" really
means. If so, it is to be hoped that, wise man as you are, the first
attack of this disorder was also your last. But at the Pandemonium
matters never went to the extremity of a member suffering the
degradation of having to walk home in the rain. Was not kind Mr.
Levison ever to the fore, with his neat little rouleaux of sovereigns,
and his fat pocket-book full of new and crisp bank-notes? Levison, as
he sat at the little table in the corner, on which were writing
materials and many packs of new cards, never refused a loan in so
many words. "I wouldn't go on if I were you, sir; the luck's dead
against you to-night; I wouldn't go on, indeed I wouldn't." This was
his invariable formula. It meant that the astute Hebrew declined to
do business on any terms. No one ever argued with Levison; all
understood that this particular phrase was final. The unhappy
applicant was naturally obliged to temporarily retire from the game,
at all events for that night. No man would have been idiot enough to
have asked a loan from a fellow player; that would have been quite
contrary to the unwritten code of ethics of the Pandemonium Club:
fathers have flinty hearts, but no fathers are so proverbially flinty-
hearted as the fathers of the card-room.
Among the players were the usual club habitués. They are much the
same everywhere, the only difference being their clothes. The
viveurs at the Pandemonium, in their faultless evening dress; the
gommeux at Monte Carlo, in their tall collars and their shiny boots;
the Bohemians, in their tobacco-scented and eccentric garments; or
the thieves playing at sixpenny loo in St. Luke's—all these people are
at heart the same. But we must not class in this unclean category
Lord Spunyarn and his friend Haggard, who were both playing at the
big table. Haggard merely played for the excitement, and Spunyarn
because it was a lesser bore to play than to look on.
The game was baccarat.
The table is covered with a tightly-stretched green cloth, which is
divided by yellow lines into fourteen spaces; two larger ones in the
centre of the table are the places of the banker and the croupier;
twelve other spaces of a smaller size indicate the seats of the rest of
the players, or "punters," as they are technically termed. The table is
full, as has been stated: a bank has just been terminated, and the
banker retires, having lost the whole amount of his bank. The
croupier, who is, of course, a professional—a bald Frenchman,
nominally one of the card-room waiters—looks round the table with
the air of an auctioneer. "Fifty pounds—seventy-five—a hundred—
two hundred—two hundred and fifty—three hundred; thank you, sir.
Mr. Haggard takes the bank, gentlemen, at three hundred pounds."
Haggard rises with a smile, seats himself in the dealer's vacant
place, opposite the croupier; he places in front of him a pile of gold
and notes. With the rapidity of one of Messrs. Coutts' young men,
the French croupier counts the money; he arranges the gold in little
piles, and the notes in three little heaps, placing a small paper-
weight on each heap. Then the croupier tears open two packets of
new cards, flinging the old ones into a waste-paper basket at his
side. He invites various players to make the cards; this is done in
rather a perfunctory manner. With a sort of huge paper-knife the
Frenchman passes the cards to Haggard, and as he does so,
remarks in a clear, but mechanical voice: "Gentlemen, the bank is
opened for three hundred pounds." Haggard takes the cards, and,
dividing them into two equal parts, rapidly shuffles them, by raising
a corner of each parcel simultaneously, and letting the corners slip
with a rapid "brrr." Evidently, from the dexterity and precision with
which this feat is accomplished, Georgie Warrender's affianced lover
is no novice. He hands the cards to his right-hand neighbour, who
carefully cuts them; each player puts forth his stake towards the
middle of the table, in front of the space allotted him. These stakes
are gold only as yet, and no man's venture seems over five pounds.
Haggard takes up about a sixth part of the cards. "Gentlemen," cries
the croupier, "the game is made." Haggard places a card to the left,
for that half of the table; another at his right, for the other half; a
third one he takes himself: he repeats the process. The croupier
slips the blade of his huge paper-knife underneath the two cards
which are on either side of the dealer, and deposits them,
unexposed, with marvellous adroitness, before the punter on either
side whose turn it is to play. Court cards and tens count as nothing,
the ace as one; should the player make either eight or nine he
invariably rests contented, and exhibits it; if below eight, he
exercises his fancy or discretion, and takes or refuses a third card.
Then Haggard turns up his own hand, doing precisely the same. He
has drawn a knave and a six; he takes another card; this turns out
to be an ace. "I have seven," he says. The player to his right holds
eight, the player to his left has only six—the right side wins, the left
side loses. In an instant the croupier, with his huge paper-knife,
sweeps up the cards, and, with the rapidity of a conjuring trick, he
casts them into a wooden bowl in the middle of the table; then he
rapidly sweeps off all the stakes on one side of the table; with equal
celerity he places each man's winnings before the players on the
other side. There are no quarrels, and no mistakes. Everybody is
terribly polite. And so the game goes on.
Though the amount played for is serious, a good deal of rather bald
conversation and chaff goes on. There is a considerable amount of
give and take. If any one has lost his temper, as well as his money,
he takes good care not to show it; to do so here would be indeed
bad form. Young Lamb has already paid several visits to Mr.
Levison's little table. Haggard's deal goes on, no very startling coup
coming off, but it has been a good bank as yet, for the pile in front
of Haggard has increased to nearly six hundred pounds. Young Lamb
having gnawed his extinguished cigar till it somewhat resembles a
quid, and having consequently swallowed a considerable amount of
nicotine, flings it away with a curse. As the last note of his last loan
from Levison is swept up by the remorseless pelle (for so the
gigantic paper-knife is technically termed), Lamb gives an order to
the waiter, and pays another visit to the smiling little Jew. Their
business is rapidly transacted; Lamb redeems some half-dozen I O
U's which he had previously given to the steward, hurriedly signs a
formal-looking instrument, which is duly witnessed, and stuffs into
his breast-pocket a big roll of notes, which he does not even stop to
count. "I do hope you'll be careful, sir," remarks the steward to Lamb
in an affectionate whisper, and in the tone of an anxious mother to
her favourite child. Lamb returns to his seat at the table; he has lost
eight hundred pounds already, but the bulgey lump in his breast-
pocket is another five thousand pounds. The waiter places by his
side a small gueridon on which is a little carafe of green Chartreuse
and a liqueur-glass; he also hands to the young fellow a box of big
full-flavoured cigars, of the brand of Anselmo del Valle. Lamb fills his
case, and lights this the ne plus ultra of a soothing weed.
"Dutch courage, Lammy, my boy," remarked Spunyarn, as he calmly
helps himself to one of the youth's cigars.
"You'd be doing the same, Shirtings, if you'd been hit at this beast of
a game as I have."
"Shirtings" was the playful name bestowed on the noble lord, in
reference to the well-known fact that the Spunyarn money had been
made in a Manchester cotton mill, and with that money it was said
that the Spunyarn title had been paid for; the first gentleman in
Europe not disdaining such bargains. Lamb swallows a second glass
of his panacea. The real fact is that the boy likes it because it is
sweet, the after-taste indistinctly resembling the distant memories of
the peppermint bull's-eyes of his early youth. But green Chartreuse
unhappily is not innocent; it is more than a spirit, it is a powerful
drug. Fired by this second draught, his tired eyes already a ferrety
red, his mouth dry with the tobacco, the drink and the excitement,
Lamb in a rasping voice shouts, "Banco."
There is a sudden hush. The whist players, who had finished for the
evening, hurry to the baccarat table; the other players, some of
whom had already staked their money, reluctantly withdraw their
various amounts. The croupier announces, intoning as does a high-
church curate, "There is seven hundred and forty pounds in the
bank, gentlemen."
Lamb with shaking fingers places the required amount in front of
him. Haggard, the dealer, apparently unconcerned, continues the
game. There is a dead silence. Neither dealer or punter take a third
card. The cards are turned. The dealer has an eight and king, the
punter a five and three. A tie. The perspiration stands on young
Lamb's face; again his cigar goes out. The croupier pushes the
seven hundred and forty pounds of the unlucky player a foot nearer
to the bank. The next coup will decide the matter. If Lamb wins, he
will get his own money back, if he loses, then his money is gone for
good. Again a dead silence, again the cards are dealt; this time the
bank wins; there is a loud noise of excited talking, above which rises
the monotonous chant of the croupier, "There is fourteen hundred
and eighty pounds in the bank, gentlemen."
The wretched young man persistently exercises his right of crying
"Banco," and so practically going double or quits each time. But "the
cards never forgive," and as a rule Dame Fortune is relentless to the
reckless player. Three more coups are played, each of which the
banker, that is to say Haggard, wins. At the end of the third coup,
Lamb loses, at a single blow, nearly three thousand pounds; he calls
the steward to his side, a short whispered conversation takes place.
"Five thousand nine hundred and twenty pounds in the bank." Again
the young fellow repeats his fatal "Banco," as he stakes a fresh pile
of notes handed to him by the obsequious Jew. Again he loses.
Haggard has won, of him alone, eleven thousand pounds. Nobody
feels inclined to go on; every one is rather scandalized, for it is
apparent to all that the boy has become suddenly, thoroughly
intoxicated.
"Damned shame, I call it," growled old General Pepper, who in his
heart envied Haggard his luck. "Why, the man's drunk, beastly
drunk, sir."
Haggard rises, glaring at old Pepper in a menacing manner. "Am I to
regard your remark as any insinuation upon me, General Pepper?"
he said fiercely.
"I say it's a damned shame," repeated the veteran.
The hubbub became general. What was to be done? Of course,
there would be a scandal, but in the eyes of most men at the
Pandemonium Club, Haggard was not to be blamed, he was merely
to be envied. Probably the real fact was that the weak young fellow
was suddenly carried off his legs by the repeated draughts of the
fiery cordial, the effect of which only became apparent to the on-
lookers after the final bet had been made and the game had
recommenced. Who shall cast a stone, then, at Haggard? He merely
backed his luck, as the saying is. There was nothing unfair about the
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