Shadows of the Workhouse

candle stuck in a turnip for dark evenings. He learned to wheedle and whine, saying his master would knock him about if he didn’t sell his wares. He always sold.
    By the age of twelve, Frank was as sharp as a terrier. He was up to every dodge in the business, and there were some who said he was as clever a man as Tip. He spent long hours in the markets, he knew the price of everything and forgot nothing. An expert in slang, he conducted all his business in the lingo. He could chaff a peeler so uncommon curious that the only way to stop him was to let him off. He was a master of his trade.
    At the age of thirteen Frank decided it was time to go it alone. He wasn’t going to give the best years of his life to a master, not he. He’d be his own master, do his own buyin’ and sellin’, and keep his own profits He’d show them how it was done.
    He left Tip and Doll and moved into a common lodging house for men – the back room of a public bar that was open only to the water’s edge. The floor was rough stone, the ceiling and walls unplastered. For twopence a night he could hire a straw mattress and a blanket on the floor. Any other lodgings would cost him tenpence a night. So Frank took it, reckoning that he would hardly be there anyway, and why waste good money on a place he only slept in?
    The men were rough, obscene, vicious, and put the fear of God into the lad, but he was growing fast, was quick on his feet and good with his fists. He coped, but only just. His greatest terror was of being robbed. He had seen it happen more than once. A sobbing lad of about twelve stuck in his mind. The boy had been skinny and pale and had lost all his stock money overnight. If a lad can’t buy, he can’t sell. Frank gave him a shilling to buy some walnuts for the theatre trade, and learned to keep his stock money safe. He kept it in his socks and slept each night with his socks and boots on, and the boots tightly laced.
    Most of the men in the lodging house were casual labourers, picking up a day’s work if and when they could. All were unskilled. Frank considered himself an aristocrat, being skilled in the fish trade. He hired his own gear, bought his own stock, and sold in the streets, keeping all his profits which he spent on flashy clothes, fancy food, beer, girls, the penny hops, the penny gaffs and gambling . . . gambling.
    By the age of fourteen, it would be safe to say Frank was a desperate gambler. All the coster men and boys gambled, but none more seriously than Frank. The love of the game was first in his thoughts and dreams, and not a spare moment would pass but he would toss a coin and invite a bet on it. He did not care what he played for, or who he played with, as long as he had a chance of winning. Every day he worked untiringly, spurred on by the thought of the money he would earn, which he could lay against the odds with the next gamester he met. Many a time he lost not only his money but his neckerchief and jacket as well, but nothing could dampen his ardour for the game, a run of continual bad luck making him more reckless than ever.
    The coster boys would meet at various points to pitch against each other. They met under railway arches, in pub yards, on the quayside of the river, or even on the shingle when the tide was out. If ever a group of boys’ backs and heads were seen crouching in a circle, it would be safe to say that it was a group of gamblers, and ten to one Frank would be in the middle, calling the loudest, the quickest, the fiercest.

    “Sixpence on Tol.”
    “Sixpence he loses.”
    “Done.”
    “Give ’im a gen [ shilling ].”
    “Flash it them [ show it ].”
    Tol wins and the loser bears his losses with a rueful grin.
    Now Frank goes into the ring and takes up a stance to toss his coins. His face is scornful.
    “Sixpence on Frank.”
    “A gen he loses.”
    “I take that one.”
    “Owl [ two shillings ] on Frank.”
    “Kool Tol, he’s fritted [ Look at Tol, he’s afraid ]. Done.”
    Frank is cool and determined. He plays three up, and calls “Tails.” The three coins fall, all tails up. Frank takes his winnings.
    Betting starts again. Tol throws, calling “Heads.” The coins fall, one head, and two tails. He throws again. The coins fall, showing three tails. Frank takes his winnings. Tol curses and spits, and throws again. “Heads.” Again they come down tails. Frank wins. He stares hard at Tol.
    “An half-couter [ half sovereign ] next throw.”
    A gasp goes up