From that time to this I never heard what became of Dreadnought, and never saw the man who bought him, even in the dock. It is strange, however, that animals so true and faithful as dogs and horses should be instruments so perverted as to make men liars and rogues; while for intelligence many of them could give most of us pounds and pa.s.s us easily at the winning-post.

Speaking of dogs reminds me of dog-stealers and _their_ ways, of which some years ago I had a curious experience. I have told the story before, but it has become altered, and the true one has never been heard since. Indeed, no story is told correctly when its copyright is infringed.

There was a man at the time referred to known as old Sam Linton, the most extraordinary dog-fancier who ever lived, and the most curious thing about him was that he always fancied other people's dogs to his own. He was a remarkable dog-_finder_, too. In these days of dogs'

homes the services of such a man as Linton are not so much in request; but he was a home in himself, and did a great deal of good in his way by restoring lost dogs to their owners; so that it became almost a common question in those days, when a lady lost her pet, to ask if she had made any inquiry of old Sam Linton. He was better than the wise woman who indicated in some mysterious jargon where the stolen watch might or might not be found in the distant future, for old Sam _brought_ you the very dog on a _specified day_! The wise woman never knew where the lost property was; old Sam did.

I dare say he was a great blackguard, but as he has long joined the majority, it is of no consequence. There was one thing I admired about Sam: there was a thorough absence in him of all hypocrisy and cant. He professed no religion whatever, but acted upon the principle that a bargain was a bargain, and should be carried out as between man and man. That was his idea, and as I found him true to it, I respected him accordingly, and mention his name as one of the few genuinely honest men I have met.

The way I made his acquaintance was singular. I was dining with my brother benchers at the Middle Temple Hall, when a message was brought that a gentleman would like to see me "partickler" after dinner, if I could give him a few minutes.

When I came out of the hall, there was a man looking very like a burglar. His dress, or what you should call his "get-up," is worth a momentary glance. He had a cat-skin cap in his hand about as large as a frying-pan, and nearly of the same colour--this he kept turning round and round first with one hand, then with both--a pea-jacket with large pearl b.u.t.tons, corduroy breeches, a kind of moleskin waistcoat, and blucher shoes. He impressed one in a moment as being fond of drink. On one or two occasions I found this quality of great service to me in matters relating to the discovery of lost dogs. Drink, no doubt, has its advantages to those who do not drink.

"Muster Orkins, sir," said he, "beggin' your pardon, sir, but might I have a word with you, Muster Orkins, if it ain't a great intrusion, sir?"

I saw my man at once, and showed him that I understood business.

"You are Sam Linton?"

It took his breath away. He hadn't much, but poor old Sam did not like to part with it. In a very husky voice, that never seemed to get outside his mouth, he said,--

"_Yus, sur_; that's it, Mr. Orkins." Then he breathed, "Yer 'onner, wot I means to say is this--"

"What do you want, Linton? Never mind what you mean to say; I know you'll never say it."

"Well, Mr. Orkins, sir, ye see it is as this: you've lost a little dorg. Well, you'll say, 'How do you know that 'ere, Sam?' 'Well, sir,'

I says, ''ow don't I know it? Ain't you bin an' offered _fourteen pun_ for that there leetle dorg? Why, it's knowed dreckly all round Mile End--the werry 'ome of lorst dorgs--and that there dorg, find him when you wool, why, he ain't worth more'n _fourteen bob_, sir.' Now, 'ow d'ye 'count for that, sir?"

"You've seen him, then?"

"Not I," says Sam, unmoved even by a twitch; "but I knows a party as 'as, and it ain't likely, Mr. Orkins, as you'll get 'im by orferin'

a price like that, for why? Why, it stands to reason--don't it, Mr.

Orkins?--it ain't the _dorg_ you're payin' for, but _your feelins_ as these 'ere wagabonds is _tradin' on, Mr. Orkins_; that's where it is.

O sir, it's abominable, as I tells 'em, keepin' a gennelman's dorg."

I was perfectly thunderstruck with the man's philosophy and good feeling.

"Go on, Mr. Linton."

"Well, Mr. Orkins, they knows--d.a.m.n 'em!--as your feelins ull make you orfer more and more, for who knows that there dorg might belong _to a lidy_, and then _her_ feelins has to be took into consideration.

I'll tell 'ee now, Mr. Orkins, how this cla.s.s of wagabond works, for wagabonds I must allow they be. Well, they meets, let's say, at a public, and one says to another, 'I say, Bill,' he says, 'that there dawg as you found 'longs to Lawyer Orkins; he's bloomin' fond o'

dawgs, is Lawyer Orkins, so they say, and he can pay for it.' 'Right you are,' says Bill, 'and a d---- lawyer _shall_ pay for it. He makes us pay when we wants him, and now we got him we'll make him pay.' So you see, Mr. Orkins, where it is, and whereas the way to do it is to say to these fellers--I'll just suppose, sir, I'm you and you're me, sir; no offence, I hope--'Well, I wants the dawg back.' Well, they says; leastways, I ses, ses I,--

"'Lawyer Orkins, you lost a dawg, 'ave yer?'

"'Yes,' ses you, 'I have,' like a gennelman--excuse my imitation, sir--' and I don't _keer a d.a.m.n for the whelp_!' That's wot you orter say. 'He's only a bloomin' mongrel.'"

"Very good; what am I to say next, Mr. Linton?"

"'Don't yer?' says the tother feller; 'then what the h---- are yer looken arter him for?'

"'Well,' you ses, Mr. Orkins, 'you can go to h----. I don't keer for the dawg; he ain't my fancy.'"

"A proper place for the whole lot of you, Sam."

"But, excuse me, Mr. Orkins, sir, that's for future occasions. This 'ere present one, in orferin' fourteen pun, you've let the cat out o'

the bag, and what I could ha' done had you consulted me sooner I can't do now; I could ha' got him for a _fi'-pun note_ at one time, but they've worked on your feelins, and, mark my words, they'll want _twenty pun_ as the price o' that there dawg, as sure as my name's Sam Linton. That's all I got to say, Mr. Orkins, and I thought I'd come and warn yer like a man--he's got into bad hands, that there dawg."

"I am much obliged, Mr. Linton; you seem to be a straightforward-dealing man."

"Well, sir, I tries to act upright and downstraight; and, as I ses, if a man only does that he ain't got nothin' to fear, 'as he, Muster Orkins?"

"When can I have him, Sam?"

"Well, sir, you can have him--let me see--Monday was a week, when you lost him; next Monday'll be another week, when I found him; that'll be a fortnit. Suppose we ses next Tooesday week?"

"Suppose we say to-morrow."

"Oh!" said Sam, "then I thinks you'll be sucked in! The chances are, Mr. Orkins, you won't see him at all. Why, sir, you don't know how them chaps carries on their business. Would you believe it, Mr.

Orkins, a gennelman comes to me, and he ses, 'Sam,' he ses, 'I want to find a little pet dawg as belonged to a lidy'--which was his wife, in course--and he ses the lidy was nearly out of her mind. 'Well,' I ses, 'sir, to be 'onest with you, don't you mention that there fact to anybody but me'--because when a lidy goes out of her mind over a lorst dawg up goes the price, and you can't calculate bank-rate, as they ses. The price'll go up fablous, Mr. Orkins; there's nothin' rules the market like that there. Well, at last I agrees to do my best for the gent, and he says, just as you might say, Mr. Orkins, just now, 'When can she have him?' Well, I told him the time; but what a innercent question, Mr. Orkins! 'Why not before?' says he, with a kind of a angry voice, like yours just now, sir. 'Why, sir,' I ses, 'these people as finds dawgs 'ave their feelins as well as losers 'as theirs, and sometimes when they can't find the owner, they sells the animal.'

Well, they sold this gennelman's animal to a major, and the reason why he couldn't be had for a little while was that the major, being fond on him, and 'avin' paid a good price for the dawg, it would ha' been cruel if he did not let him have the pleasure of him like for a few days--or a week."

Sam and I parted the best of friends, and, I need not say, on the best of terms I could get. I knew him for many years after this incident, and say to his credit that, although he was sometimes hard with customers, he acted, from all one ever heard, strictly in accordance with the bargain he made, whatever it might be; and what is more singular than all, I never heard of old Sam Linton getting into trouble.

CHAPTER X.

WHY I GAVE OVER CARD-PLAYING.

Like most men who are not saints, I had the natural instinct for gambling, without any pa.s.sion for it; but soon found the necessity for suppressing my inclination for cards, lest it should interfere with my legitimate profession. It was necessary to abandon the indulgence, or abandon myself to its temptations.

I owe my determination never to play again at cards to the bad luck which befell me on a particular occasion at Ascot on the Cup Day of the year 18--. I was at that time struggling to make my way in my profession, and carefully storing up my little savings for the proverbial rainy day.

Having been previously to the Epsom summer races, and had such extraordinary good luck, nothing but a severe reverse would have induced me to take the step I did. Good luck is fascinating, and invariably leads us on, with bad luck sometimes close behind.

I went to Epsom with my dear old friend Charley Wright, and we soon set to work in one of the booths to make something towards our fortunes at _rouge et noir_. The booth was kept by a man who seemed--to me, at all events--to be the soul of honour. I had no reason to speak otherwise than well of him, for I staked a half-crown on the black, and won two half-crowns every time, or nearly every time.

I thought it a most excellent game, and with less of the element of chance or skill in it than any game I ever played. My pockets were getting stuffed with half-crowns, so that they bulged, and caused me to wonder if I should be allowed to leave the racecourse alive, for there were many thieves who visited the Downs in those days.

But my friend Charley was with me, and I knew he would be a pretty trustworthy fellow in a row. This, however, was but a momentary thought, for I was too much engrossed in the game and in my good luck to dwell on possibilities. Nor did I interest myself in Charley's proceedings, but took it for granted that a game so propitious to me was no less so to him. He was playing with several others; who or what they were was of no moment to me. I pursued my game quietly, and picked up my half-crowns with great gladness and with no concern for those who had lost them.

Presently, however, my attention was momentarily diverted by hearing Charley let off a most uncontrollable "D--n!"

"What's the matter, Charley?" I asked, without lifting my head.

"Matter!" says Charley; "rooked--that's all!"