At the mention of the name of Crockford’s a procession of the greatest men of the day passes before my eyes; their name would be legion as to numbers, but an army of devoted patriots I should call them in every other sense, for they were English to the backbone, whether gamblers or saints.

Of course there were some amongst them, as in every large body of men, who were not so desirable to know as you could wish; but they were easy to avoid and at all times an interesting study.

There were wise men and self-deluded fools, manly, well-bred men, and effeminate, conceited coxcombs, who wore stays and did up their back hair, used paint, and daubed their cheeks with violet powder.  These men, while they had it, planked down their money with the longest possible odds against them.  There was one who was the very opposite to these in the person of old Squire Osbaldistone.  True, he had squandered more money than any one had ever seen outside the Bank of England, but he had done it like a gentleman and not like a fool.  A real grand man was the old squire, and I enjoyed many a walk with him over Newmarket Heath, listening to his amusing anecdotes, his delightful humour and brilliant wit.  His manner was so buoyant that no one could have believed he had spent hundreds of thousands of pounds, but he had, without compunction or regret.

The novelist and the painter could artistically describe Squire Osbaldistone.  I can only say he was a “fine old English gentleman, one of the olden time.”  It was in a billiard-room at Leamington where I first met him, and as he was as indifferent a player as you could meet, he thought himself one of the best that ever handled a cue.

I neither played chicken hazard nor any other game, but enjoyed myself in seeing others play, and in picking up crumbs of knowledge which I made good use of in my profession.

The institution was not established for the benefit of science or literature, except that kind of literature which goes by the name of bookmaking.  Its founder was a veritable dunce, but he was the cleverest of bookmakers, and made more by it in one night than all the authors of that day in their lives.  One hundred thousand pounds in one night was not bad evidence of his calculation of chances and his general knowledge of mankind.

To be a member of this club, wealth was not the only qualification, because in time you would lose it; you had to be well born or distinguished in some other way.  The fishmonger knew a good salmon by its appearance; he had also a keen respect for the man who had ancestors and ancestral estates.

I ought not to omit to mention another celebrated bookie of that day; he was second only to Crockford himself, and was called “The Librarian.”  He was also known as “Billy Sims.”

Billy lived in St. James’s Street, in a house which has long since been demolished, and thither people resorted to enjoy the idle, witty, and often scandalous gossip of the time.  It was as easy to lose your reputation there as your money at Crockford’s, and far more difficult to keep it.  The only really innocent conversation was when a man talked about himself.