I got my fingers crossed or not?”
Seeing that he held one hand behind him I thought to humour him by saying, “I fancy so, sir.”
“He means ‘yes,’” said Cousin Egbert.
The other held his hand before me with the first two fingers spread wide apart. “You lost,” he said. “How’s that, Sour-dough? We stuck him the first rattle out of the box.”
“Good work,” said Cousin Egbert. “You’re stuck for this round,” he added to me. “Three rousing cheers!”
I readily perceived that they meant me to pay the score, which I accordingly did, though I at once suspected the fairness of the game. I mean to say, if my opponent had been a trickster he could easily have rearranged his fingers to defeat me before displaying them. I do not say it was done in this instance. I am merely pointing out that it left open a way to trickery. I mean to say, one would wish to be assured of his opponent’s social standing before playing this game extensively.
No sooner had we finished the drink than the Tuttle person said to me:
“I’ll give you one chance to get even. I’ll guess your fingers this time.” Accordingly I put one hand behind me and firmly crossed the fingers, fancying that he would guess them to be uncrossed. Instead of which he called out “Crossed,” and I was obliged to show them in that wise, though, as before pointed out, I could easily have defeated him by uncrossing them before revealing my hand. I mean to say, it is not on the face of it a game one would care to play with casual acquaintances, and I questioned even then in my own mind its prevalence in the States. (As a matter of fact, I may say that in my later life in the States I could find no trace of it, and now believe it to have been a pure invention on the part of the Tuttle person. I mean to say, I later became convinced that it was, properly speaking, not a game at all.)
Again they were hugely delighted at my loss and rapped smartly on the table for more drink, and now to my embarrassment I discovered that I lacked the money to pay for this “round” as they would call it.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said I discreetly to Cousin Egbert, “but if you could let me have a bit of change, a half-crown or so——” To my surprise he regarded me coldly and shook his head emphatically in the negative.
“Not me,” he said; “I’ve been had too often. You’re a good smooth talker and you may be all right, but I can’t take a chance at my time of life.”
“What’s he want now?” asked the other.
“The old story,” said Cousin Egbert: “come off and left his purse on the hatrack or out in the woodshed some place.” This was the height of absurdity, for I had said nothing of the sort.
“I was looking for something like that,” said the other “I never make a mistake in faces. You got a watch there haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and laid on the table my silver English half-hunter with Albert. They both fell to examining this with interest, and presently the Tuttle person spoke up excitedly:
“Well, darn my skin if he ain’t got a genuine double Gazottz. How did you come by this, my man?” he demanded sharply.
“It came from my brother-in-law, sir,” I explained, “six years ago as security for a trifling loan.”
“He sounds honest enough,” said the Tuttle person to Cousin Egbert.
“Yes, but maybe it ain’t a regular double Gazottz,” said the latter. “The market is flooded with imitations.”
“No, sir, I can’t be fooled on them boys,” insisted the other. “Blindfold me and I could pick a double Gazottz out every time. I’m going to take a chance on it, anyway.” Whereupon the fellow pocketed my watch and from his wallet passed me a note of the so-called French money which I was astounded to observe was for the equivalent of four pounds, or one hundred francs, as the French will have it. “I’ll advance that much on it,” he said, “but don’t ask for another cent until I’ve had it thoroughly gone over by a plumber. It may have moths in it.”
It seemed to me that the chap was quite off his head, for the watch was worth not more than ten shillings at the most, though what a double Gazottz might be I could not guess. However, I saw it would be wise to appear to accept the loan, and tendered the note in payment of the score.
When I had secured the change I sought to intimate that we should be leaving. I thought even the street fair would be better for us than this rapid consumption of stimulants.
“I bet he’d go without buying,” said Cousin Egbert.
“No, he wouldn’t,” said the other. “He knows what’s customary in a case like this. He’s just a little embarrassed. Wait and see if I ain’t right.” At which they both sat and stared at me in silence for some moments until at last I ordered more drink, as I saw was expected of me.
“He wants the cabman to have one with him,” said Cousin Egbert, whereat the other not only beckoned our cabby to join us, but called to two labourers who were passing, and also induced the waiter who served us to join in the “round.”
“He seems to have a lot of tough friends,” said Cousin Egbert as we all drank, though he well knew I had extended none of these invitations.
“Acts like a drunken sailor soon as he gets a little money,” said the other.
“Three rousing cheers!” replied Cousin Egbert, and to my great chagrin he leaped to his feet, seized one of the navvies about the waist, and there on the public pavement did a crude dance with him to the strain of the “Marseillaise” from the steam orchestrion. Not only this, but when the music had ceased he traded hats with the navvy, securing a most shocking affair in place of the new one, and as they parted he presented the fellow with the gloves and stick I had purchased for him that very morning. As I stared aghast at this faux pas the navvy, with his new hat at an angle and twirling the stick, proceeded down the street with mincing steps and exaggerated airs of gentility, to the applause of the entire crowd, including Cousin Egbert.
“This ain’t quite the hat I want,” he said as he returned to us, “but the day is young. I’ll have other chances,” and with the help of the public-house window as a mirror he adjusted the unmentionable thing with affectations of great nicety.
“He always was a dressy old scoundrel,” remarked the Tuttle person. And then, as the music came to us once more, he continued: “Say, Sour-dough, let’s go over to the rodeo—they got some likely looking broncs over there.”
Arm in arm, accordingly, they crossed the street and proceeded to the carrousel, first warning the cabby and myself to stay by them lest harm should come to us. What now ensued was perhaps their most remarkable behaviour at the day. At the time I could account for it only by the liquor they had consumed, but later experience in the States convinced me that they were at times consciously spoofing. I mean to say, it was quite too absurd—their seriously believing what they seemed to believe.
The carrousel being at rest when we approached, they gravely examined each one of the painted wooden effigies, looking into such of the mouths as were open, and cautiously feeling the forelegs of the different mounts, keeping up an elaborate pretence the while that the beasts were real and that they were in danger of being kicked. One absurdly painted horse they agreed would be the most difficult to ride. Examining his mouth, they disputed as to his age, and called the cabby to have his opinion of the thing’s fetlocks, warning each other to beware of his rearing. The cabby, who was doubtless also intoxicated, made an equal pretence of the beast’s realness, and indulged, I gathered, in various criticisms of its legs at great length.
“I think he’s right,” remarked the Tuttle person when the cabby had finished. “It’s a bad case of splints. The leg would be blistered if I had him.”
“I wouldn’t give him corral room,” said Cousin Egbert. “He’s a bad actor. Look at his eye! Whoa! there—you would, would you!” Here he made a pretence that the beast had