And the club turned out to be a regular hell—the prices even for arrack and cheroots were ruinous, and the faro table was as crooked as a line of Russian infantry and a damned sight harder to beat. It’s always the same; the more genteel the company, the fouler the play. In my time I’ve played nap in the Australian diggings with gold-dust stakes, held a blackjack bank on a South Sea trader, and been in a poker game in a Dodge City livery stable with the pistols down on the blanket—and I’ve met less sharping in all of ’em put together than you’d find in one evening in a London club.

We dropped a few guineas, and then Speed says:

“This ain’t much fun. I know a better game.”

I believed him, so we picked up two of the Cyprians in the gaming-room and took them upstairs to play loo for each others’ clothes. I had my eye on the smaller of the two, a pert little red-haired piece with dimples; thinks I, if I can’t get this one stripped for action in a dozen hands then I’ve lost my talent for palming and dealing from the bottom. But whether I’d taken too much drink—for we had punished a fair amount of arrack, dear as it was—or the tarts were cheating too, the upshot was that I was down to my shirt-tail before my little minx had removed more than her shoes and gloves.

She was trilling with laughter, and I was getting impatient, when a most unholy din broke out on the floor below. There was a pounding of feet, and shouting, whistles blowing and dogs barking, and then a voice yelled:

“Cut and run! It’s the traps!”

“Christ!” says Speed, grabbing for his breeches. “It’s a raid! Let’s get out of this, Flash!”

The whores squeaked with panic, and I swore and struggled into my clothes. It’s no joke trying to dress when the peelers are after you, but I had sense enough to know that there wasn’t a hope of escaping unless we were fully clad—you can’t run through St James on a fine evening with your trousers in your hand.

“Come on!” Speed was shouting. “They’ll be on us in a moment!”

“What shall we do?” wails the red-haired slut.

“Do what you dam’ well please,” says I, slipping on my shoes. “Good-night, ladies.” And Speed and I slipped out into the corridor.

The place was in uproar. It sounded like a battle royal down on the gaming-floor, with furniture smashing and the Cyprians screaming, and someone bawling: “In the Queen’s name!” On our landing there were frightened whores peeping out of the doorways, and men in every stage of undress hopping about looking for somewhere to run to. One fat old rascal, stark naked, was beating on a door bawling:

“Hide me, Lucy!”