CHAPTER XI.

THE COUP DE JARNAC.

THE importance of the following subject—as many a fool has found to his cost—entitles it to a chapter to itself. It’s short, but instructive.

Card-sharping—pure and simple—is such a low and contemptible subject that we would not presume to present it to our readers were it not occasionally reduced to a “fine art,” and, as such, worthy of notice, like the infallible formula that was in vogue in Europe some years ago, and, for aught we know, may still be practised by the “past-masters” of the fraternity.

One may dismiss with contempt such fumblers as the scion of a ducal house who staked and lost his social position some years ago in a high-class Pall Mall club by what has been described as one of the two unpardonable offences against society; and were it not for the unique way his clumsy attempt was accidentally discovered the story would not bear repetition.

There had been a Court function, and Lord Sydney, the Lord Chamberlain, innocently watching a rubber, was considerably surprised by a card cannoning against his silk stockings and striking him on the calf. Whether the fumbler had selected this course of throwing away a card because he had a bad hand, and so claiming a mis-deal, or was supplied with a relay like an amateur conjurer, suffice that he was detected and henceforth disappeared below the horizon.

Nor will we detail how Prince Sapieha, of the 5th Dragoon Guards, playing écarté with a subaltern of Lancers, at the Raleigh, caught his adversary in the act of passing the king, and so cut short a promising military career, for although Sapieha, in his generosity, promised not to disclose it, conditionally on the culprit never again presuming to play at the club, the story leaked out, and the inevitable result followed.

Nor will we discuss the questionable taste—considering the company—that permitted publicity to the silly tactics of an impecunious Baronet who, by moving a bone counter, endeavoured to realise a few ill-gotten sovereigns.

But what we propose to do is to place before our readers a formula so capable of expansion, so incapable of detection, that one is staggered at the misplaced ingenuity that discovered the combination.

Nor do we here refer to the public casinos of France and Monte Carlo, where at worst one is playing against about 2½ per cent. above the odds at roulette, and about 1¾ per cent. at _trente et quarante_, but to those accursed private parties in Paris, and possibly nearer home, where the following was in full blast many years ago.

Assuming, then, that we have not all experienced a plucking, the procedure at (say) baccarat may be given.

Conceive a long oblong table; in the centre sits the banker, whilst before him are two or three packs of new cards from which he tears the wrappers, shuffles them, and, placing them on the table, invites a player to cut. What fairer than this? What possibility of sharp practice when every eye is riveted on him, who, dealing one card to the right and one to the left, finally deals to himself?

Now study the following table, and realise that the wrappers have been previously steamed and then re-gummed, and that the cards have been packed in rotation (face upwards) reading from left to right:—

7 0 5 9 0 2 6 0 4 1 3 6 0

8 0 1 2 6 9 0 8 7 0 9 7 0

4 9 0 2 5 0 4 8 0 3 2 0 8

1 1 3 5 5 3 4 0 0 0 6 0 7

(0 represents tens and court cards.)

Cut the cards as often as you please, and the sequence and _consequence_ remain unimpaired; before testing this, however, it must be understood that we refer to experienced players who know when to draw and when to stand, and it will be found that the dealer never loses, but for decency occasionally ties.

“Lightning shuffling,” whereby the _artiste_ (!) appears to dislocate every card whilst really disturbing none is added to complete the illusion.

Here, then, is a problem worthy of such Solons and “system-mongers” as Messrs. Wells, Rosslyn, and others, who, having found disciples, are invariably in pawn within a week.

There is, however, one system one should invariably follow: avoid play, as a _private_ enterprise, however alluring the surroundings, unless you are perfectly confident—and how can one be?—that the gentleman who takes the bank and his familiars have not been educated up to the “Coup de Jarnac.”