“That’s ten bob he’s won in five minutes,” said Joe (the loser), looking round with a forced smile; but Ned (the winner) never spake a word, even when he gave any change to his antagonist; and if he took a bet, he only nodded to the one that offered it, and threw down his money. Once, when he picked up more than a sovereign from the ground, that he had won in one throw, a washed sweep, with a black rim round his neck, said, “There’s a hog!” but there wasn’t even a smile at the joke. At last Joe began to feel angry, and stamping his foot till the water squirted up from the beach, cried, “It’s no use; luck’s set in him--he’d muck a thousand!” and so he shifted his ground, and betted all round on the chance of better fortune attending the movement. He lost again, and some one bantering said, “You’ll win the shine-rag, Joe,” meaning that he would be “cracked up,” or ruined, if he continued.
When one o’clock struck, a lad left, saying, he was “going to get an inside lining” (dinner). The sweep asked him what he was going to have. “A two-and-half plate, and a ha’p’orth of smash” (a plate of soup and a ha’p’orth of mashed potatoes), replied the lad, bounding into the court. Nobody else seemed to care for his dinner, for all stayed to watch the gamblers.
Every now and then some one would go up the court to see if the lad watching for the police was keeping a good look-out; but the boy never deserted his post, for fear of losing his threepence. If he had, such is the wish to protect the players felt by every lad, that even whilst at dinner, one of them, if he saw a policeman pass, would spring up and rush to the gambling ring to give notice.
When the tall youth, “Ned,” had won nearly all the silver of the group, he suddenly jerked his gains into his coat-pocket, and saying, “I’ve done,” walked off, and was out of sight in an instant. The surprise of the loser and all around was extreme. They looked at the court where he had disappeared, then at one another, and at last burst out into one expression of disgust. “There’s a scurf!” said one; “He’s a regular scab,” cried another; and a coster declared that he was “a trosseno, and no mistake.” For although it is held to be fair for the winner to go whenever he wishes, yet such conduct is never relished by the losers.