spoke only to remind him that Sophie had desired them to pick up some fish at Holland’s, and to add three dabs for the children.
Craddock’s was already lighting up when they left their horses with the ostler, and Jack led Stephen under a series of noble chandeliers to the card-room, where he gave a man at a little table inside the door eighteen-pence. ‘Let us hope the game will be worth the candle,’ he said, looking round. Craddock’s was frequented by the wealthier officers, country gentleman, lawyers, officials in Government employ, and other civilians; and it was among these that Jack saw the men he was looking for. ‘There they are,’ he said, ‘talking to Admiral Snape. The one in the bag wig is Judge Wray, and the other is his cousin, Andrew Wray, pretty eminent in Whitehall – spends most of his time down here on Navy Office business. I dare say they have made up our table already: I see Carroll standing by until they have finished with the Admiral – the tall fellow in a sky-blue coat and white pantaloons. Now there’s a man who understands horses for you. His stables are over behind Horndean.’
‘Running horses?’
‘Oh yes, indeed. His grandfather owned Potoooooooo, so it’s in the blood. Do you choose to take a hand? We play the French game here.’
‘I believe not; but I will sit by you, if I may.’
‘I should be very happy; you will bring me some of your luck. You was always lucky at cards. Now I must step over to the desk and buy some counters.’
While Jack was gone, Stephen paced about the room. Many of the tables were already occupied, and some quiet, intense, scientific whist was going on; but he had a feeling that the evening had not really begun. He met some naval acquaintances, and one of these, Captain Dundas, said, ‘I hope he will prove to be Lucky Jack Aubrey again this evening: last time I was here…’
‘There you are, Heneage,’ cried Jack, bearing down on them. ‘Will you join us? We have a table of Van John.’
‘Not I, Jack. We half-pay paupers can’t stand in the line with nabobs like you.’
‘Come along then, Stephen. They are just going to sit down.’ He led Stephen to the far end of the room. ‘Judge Wray,’ he said, ‘allow me to name Dr Maturin, my particular friend. Mr Wray. Mr Carroll. Mr Jenyns.’ They bowed to one another, uttered civil expressions, and settled down to the broad green baize. The judge carried judicial impenetrability into his social life to such a pitch that Stephen received little impression but that of self-consequence. Andrew Wray, his cousin, was a somewhat younger and obviously far more intelligent man; he had served under the political heads of the Admirality, and Stephen had heard of him in connection with the Patronage Office and the Treasury. Jenyns was neither here nor there, a man who had inherited a vast brewery and a broad, pale, unmeaning countenance; but Carroll was a more interesting creature by far, as tall as Jack though less burly, with a long face very like that of a horse, but of a horse endowed with a high degree of life and wit. As he shuffled, his jovial eye, as blue as Jack’s, fell upon Stephen, and he smiled, a singularly winning smile that compelled a return: the cards flowed through his hands in an obedient stream.
Each drew in turn, and the deal fell to Mr Wray. Stephen was not familiar with their version of the game, although its childish basis was clear enough; and for a while their cries of ‘imaginary tens’, ‘rouge et noir’, ‘sympathy and antipathy’, ‘self and company’, and ‘clock’ were amusing enough. He also took some pleasure in watching their faces – the judge’s pomp yielding to a sly satisfaction, and that succeeded by a sourness and an evil-tempered jerk of his mouth; the deliberate nonchalance of his cousin, betrayed now and then by a sudden blaze in his eye; Carroll’s intense eagerness, his whole person vividly alive with a look that reminded Stephen of Jack’s when he was taking his ship into action. Jack seemed very well with them all, even with the phlegmatic Jenyns, as though he had known them these many years; but that did not mean a great deal. With his open, friendly character, Jack was always well with his company, and Stephen had known him get along famously with country gentlemen whose talk was all of bullocks. There was no money on the table, only counters: these moved from one place to another, though with no determined tide as yet, and as Stephen did not know what they represented his interest in the matter faded quickly. Reminded by the shape of some of the tokens, he thought of Sophie’s fish, silently withdrew, and made his way along the busy High Street, past the George, to Holland’s, where he bought a couple of fine plump lampreys (his favourite dish) and the dabs: these he carried with him down to the Hard, where the Mentor’s crew, just paid off, were bawling and hallooing round a bonfire, together with a growing crowd of the thick, powerful young women known as brutes and a large number of pimps, idle apprentices, and pickpockets. The bonfire sent a ruddy glow far up into the night air, accentuating the darkness: disturbed gulls could be seen far above, their wings a reflected pink; and in the midst of the flames hung the effigy of the Mentor’s first lieutenant. ‘Shipmate,’ said Stephen into the ear of a bemused sailor whose brute was openly robbing him, ‘mind your poke.’ But even as he spoke he felt a violent twitch at the parcel under his arm. His lampreys and his dabs were gone – a wicked flying boy, not three foot tall, vanished in the milling crowd – and Stephen walked back to the shop, which could now afford him no more than a salmon of enormous price, and a pair of wizened plaice.
Their smell grew more apparent as they warmed against his bosom, and he left them with the horses before returning to his seat. Everything seemed much as it had been, except that Jack’s store of counters had grown thin and sparse; they still called ‘pay the difference’ and ‘antipathy’; but there was certainly a new tension. Jenyns’ pale expanse of face was sweating more profusely; Carroll’s whole being was electric with excitement; the two Wrays were even colder and more guarded. As he was drawing a card, Jack brushed one of his remaining counters, a mother-of-pearl fish, off the table: Stephen picked it up, and Jack said, ‘Thankee, Stephen, that’s a pony.’
‘It looks more like a fish,’ said Stephen.
‘That is our slang term for five and twenty pound,’ said Carroll, smiling at him.
‘Indeed?’ said Stephen, realizing that they were playing for far, far higher stakes than he had ever imagined. He watched the silly game with much keener attention, and presently he began to think it strange that Jack should lose so much, so often, so regularly. Andrew Wray and Carroll were the principal winners; the judge seemed to be more or less where he had begun; Jack and Jenyns had lost heavily, and they both called for fresh counters before Stephen had been back half an hour. During this half hour he had made up his mind that something was amiss. Something was holding the law of probabilities in abeyance. Just what it was he could not tell, but he was sure that if only he could as it were break the code he should find evidence for the collusion that he sensed. A dropped handkerchief allowed him to inspect their feet, a usual means of communication; but their feet told him nothing. And where did the collusion lie? Between whom? Was Jenyns in fact losing as much as he appeared to be losing, or was he a deeper man than he seemed? It was easy to be too clever by half, and to over-reach oneself, in matters of this kind: in natural philosophy and in political intelligence a good rule was to look into the obvious first, and to solve the easy parts of the problem. The judge had a trick of drumming his fingers on the table; so did his cousin. Natural enough: but was not Andrew Wray’s drumming of a somewhat particular kind? Not so much the ordinary rhythmic roll as the motion of a man picking out a tune with variations: was he mistaken in thinking that Carroll’s lively, piratical eye dwelt upon those movements? Unable to decide, he moved round the table and stood behind Wray and Carroll, to establish a possible relationship between the drumming and the cards they held. His move was not directly useful, however. He had not been there for any length of time before Wray called for sandwiches and half a pint of sherry, and the drumming stopped – a hand holding a sandwich is naturally immobilized. Yet with the coming of the wine, the law of probabilities reasserted itself: Jack’s luck changed; fish returned to him in a modest shoal; and he stood up somewhat richer than he had sat down.
He displayed no indecent self-complacency; indeed, all the gentlemen present might have been playing for love, from their lack of apparent emotion; but Stephen knew that secretly he was delighted. ‘You brought me luck, Stephen,’ he said, when they had mounted. ‘You