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 from the onlookers, and they bet among themselves for or against Frank.
“Done,” says Tol defiantly.
Frank tosses. “Heads,” he calls. The three coins fall, all heads up.
“You stinking fish,” screams Tol, and pledges his jacket and his boots to honour the debt. He is getting aggressive, and the crowd presses closer. Tol jerks his elbow savagely. “I wish to Christ you’d stand back.” Tol’s lips are pressed together, his eyes anxious and watchful.
The tense atmosphere has attracted men to the scene, who start their own betting on the two gamesters.
Tol adopts new tactics to bring back his luck. He pushes aside the onlookers and shifts his position a quarter-circle to the right before throwing.
“I’ll have it off you. A half-couter,” he cries with bravado, knowing full well that he is pledging half his stock money.
“Done,” says Frank, confidently.
Betting amongst the onlookers continues and Frank and Tol know that sovereigns are being placed on one or other of them.
Tol spits on the coins, then takes a halfpenny and tosses it on his hand to see what he should call. He then spits again on the three coins and shifts his feet defiantly on the cobbles. He tosses his three coins, calling out “Tails.” The coins fall, all tails up. His features relax, and he looks round the circle with a triumphant grin. He puts on his jacket and boots with a triumphant air. Money changes hands among the spectators.
That throw marks the end of Frank’s luck for the day. He tosses again and again and, four times out of five, loses. He can hear the bets of the men going against him, and grinds his teeth in fury. If it were an accepted part of gambling to murder your opponent, he would do so. Tol calls again and again. Every time Frank accepts and challenges in return. He loses all his winnings, all his earnings, his neckerchief, his jacket, he even pledges his magnificent velvet cap, vowing it will bring him luck. It doesn’t, and he loses it.
With the cap in his hands, Tol stands up. He casts a contemptuous look at Frank, spits on the cap and throws it in the river.
“I’m off now to get a liner [dinner].”
He swaggers away to the admiring gasps of the boys and the amused shrugs of the men.
Seething with fury Frank vows revenge. “You wait, you scab, I’ll ’ave you to rights. I’ll muck you, you scurf, you,” he screams.
The men laugh and saunter off. The boys lose interest. A new game starts.
Frank tried to strike a jaunty pose as he stood up, but with no jacket, no neckerchief and no cap, he didn’t feel like the cold, calculating gamester any more. He turned quickly and walked in the opposite direction from Tol.
He walked for hours, not feeling the keen wind blowing off the Thames, his mind full of the next game, when he would get even. He’d show ’em. He’d ’ave the houses [trousers] off that lousy skunk. He’d get ’is money back, an’ more. Hatred filled his heart when he remembered the insult to himself and his trade. Being called a stinking fish was more than a man could stand. He’d get even. His luck’d be back next week. Not for an instant did it occur to him that he had been a fool. The passion for gambling had him in its obsessive grip.