The next
moment he would give it away to a beggar. Numbers of good people look
upon gambling with even greater horror than it deserves, because they
cannot understand this; the attraction of risk, and the wild joy of
"pulling off" something when the chances are against one, are unknown to
them. It is the same with the love of liquor. Richard Luscombe had not
a spark of that (his father left him one of the best cellars in England,
but he never touches even a glass of claret after dinner; "I should as
soon think," he says, "of eating when I am not hungry"); but he dearly
liked what he called a "spec." Never shall I forget the first time he
realised anything that could be termed a stake.
When he was about sixteen, he and I had driven over to some little
country races a few miles away from Dalton, without, I fear, announcing
our intention of so doing. Fresh air was good for "our dear Richard,"
and since pedestrian exercise (which he also hated) exhausted him, he
had a groom and dog-cart always at his own disposal. It was a day of
great excitement for me, who had never before seen a race-course. The
flags, the grand stand (a rude erection of planks, which came down,
by-the-bye, the next year during the race for the cup, and reduced the
sporting population), the insinuating gipsies, the bawling card-sellers,
and especially the shining horses with their twisted manes, all excited
my admiration.
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