Reginald Blows It All
Reginald Biddleford was, by his own cheerful admission, "absolutely stinking rich." As the Fifth Earl of Spiffley, he had inherited a family fortune that went back several hundred years. While all his forebears had been reasonable men, upright and thrifty in their habits, Reginald was something of a black sheep. He had a deserved reputation as a drunkard, a spendthrift, a gambler, and an all-round waster.
"I say, Reggie, you really do need to put on the brakes, old man," said Henry Throttle-Filching, who had known Reginald since the two of them had been young students at Eton. "Sooner or later, all this fast living is going to ruin you. Your supply of money isn't bottomless, you know."
"Oh, bugger off, Henry," Reginald said. "You sound like my old nanny, Miss Prunepit. I'm not a child, to be spoken to as if I didn't know my own mind. Live it up today and let the devil take the hindmost, that's the ticket! I'm just having a spot of fun before I settle down."
"Dash it all, Reggie, the way you spend your money, you'll be lucky to keep a roof over your head," Henry said. "You're going to lose everything, old chum, if you're not more careful. You need to settle down now, before it's too late."
Reginald and Henry had been having the same conversation for a long time. It was a conversation that never went anywhere. Henry always ended by warning his friend to "straighten up and fly right," but Reginald always laughed and continued to go his own brazen way.
The worst of his many vices was his excessive fondness for gambling. Night after night he went to private clubs, where he gambled until he dropped from lack of sleep. Reginald gambled as if he had all the money in the world to lose. The more he lost, the more he would bet. He had become, as he himself liked to put it, a "willing slave" to the reckless thrill that he felt whenever he was on the verge of gambling everything away.
His gambling already had caused him to suffer heavy losses: in a period of six months he had lost three sports cars, a stable of racehorses, a townhouse in London, and a villa in the south of France. It seemed only a matter of time before he also lost the family home, Bliddford Manor.
"I could give up gambling here and now, if I wanted to," Reginald said, time after time. "Perhaps someday I shall, if it ever strikes my fancy."
Henry finally decided that it was necessary for Reginald to be put to the test. He was determined to make Reginald see the error of his ways, once and for all. He knew that his friend would have to be forced to reform.
"I'm going to offer you a deal, Reggie," Henry said one day. "I'll wager that you can't go one week without gambling. If you behave yourself and keep your nose clean for a week, I'll pay off all your outstanding debts. If you don't, you forfeit Biddleford Manor to me."
"You're on, old man," Reginald said, unable to resist the bait.
Reginald was thoroughly doomed from the start. Gambling was his vice of choice and his lifeblood. It came as easily to him as breathing. He was able to hold out for three days, until he broke down and made a small bet on a horse, hoping that Henry would not find out. The horse finished last in the race.
Henry soon got wind of it, and the game was up. This time Reginald had pulled the carpet out from under himself. He had lost the bet with Henry, and with it, the deed to Biddleford Manor.
"That's a bit of rum luck, Reggie," Henry said, in a show of false pity. "Still, it's a matter of keeping one's word and maintaining one's name, isn't it? A true gentleman must always accept his fate in a gentlemanly manner."
"Yes, I suppose a gentleman must," Reginald said in a gloomy tone, as he began to grasp the full extent of his own downfall.
The carefree days of Reginald Biddleford had been gambled away, and were never to return. Reginald truly had blown it all. Henry Throttle-Filching became the new owner of Biddleford Manor, which thereafter was known as Throttle-Filching Manor.
Reginald, for the first time in his sorry life, was compelled to sort out things for himself. He did not take kindly to his new state of shame and penury. After a few dreary months of surviving on handouts from the Salvation Army, he was able to find work in the City, as a stockbroker with the firm of Snarking, Spittle, and Clump.
Once Reginald got his bearings in the City and began to apply himself to the business at hand, he actually did quite well. Being a stockbroker was, after all, merely another form of gambling.
"I say, Reggie, you really do need to put on the brakes, old man," said Henry Throttle-Filching, who had known Reginald since the two of them had been young students at Eton. "Sooner or later, all this fast living is going to ruin you. Your supply of money isn't bottomless, you know."
"Oh, bugger off, Henry," Reginald said. "You sound like my old nanny, Miss Prunepit. I'm not a child, to be spoken to as if I didn't know my own mind. Live it up today and let the devil take the hindmost, that's the ticket! I'm just having a spot of fun before I settle down."
"Dash it all, Reggie, the way you spend your money, you'll be lucky to keep a roof over your head," Henry said. "You're going to lose everything, old chum, if you're not more careful. You need to settle down now, before it's too late."
Reginald and Henry had been having the same conversation for a long time. It was a conversation that never went anywhere. Henry always ended by warning his friend to "straighten up and fly right," but Reginald always laughed and continued to go his own brazen way.
The worst of his many vices was his excessive fondness for gambling. Night after night he went to private clubs, where he gambled until he dropped from lack of sleep. Reginald gambled as if he had all the money in the world to lose. The more he lost, the more he would bet. He had become, as he himself liked to put it, a "willing slave" to the reckless thrill that he felt whenever he was on the verge of gambling everything away.
His gambling already had caused him to suffer heavy losses: in a period of six months he had lost three sports cars, a stable of racehorses, a townhouse in London, and a villa in the south of France. It seemed only a matter of time before he also lost the family home, Bliddford Manor.
"I could give up gambling here and now, if I wanted to," Reginald said, time after time. "Perhaps someday I shall, if it ever strikes my fancy."
Henry finally decided that it was necessary for Reginald to be put to the test. He was determined to make Reginald see the error of his ways, once and for all. He knew that his friend would have to be forced to reform.
"I'm going to offer you a deal, Reggie," Henry said one day. "I'll wager that you can't go one week without gambling. If you behave yourself and keep your nose clean for a week, I'll pay off all your outstanding debts. If you don't, you forfeit Biddleford Manor to me."
"You're on, old man," Reginald said, unable to resist the bait.
Reginald was thoroughly doomed from the start. Gambling was his vice of choice and his lifeblood. It came as easily to him as breathing. He was able to hold out for three days, until he broke down and made a small bet on a horse, hoping that Henry would not find out. The horse finished last in the race.
Henry soon got wind of it, and the game was up. This time Reginald had pulled the carpet out from under himself. He had lost the bet with Henry, and with it, the deed to Biddleford Manor.
"That's a bit of rum luck, Reggie," Henry said, in a show of false pity. "Still, it's a matter of keeping one's word and maintaining one's name, isn't it? A true gentleman must always accept his fate in a gentlemanly manner."
"Yes, I suppose a gentleman must," Reginald said in a gloomy tone, as he began to grasp the full extent of his own downfall.
The carefree days of Reginald Biddleford had been gambled away, and were never to return. Reginald truly had blown it all. Henry Throttle-Filching became the new owner of Biddleford Manor, which thereafter was known as Throttle-Filching Manor.
Reginald, for the first time in his sorry life, was compelled to sort out things for himself. He did not take kindly to his new state of shame and penury. After a few dreary months of surviving on handouts from the Salvation Army, he was able to find work in the City, as a stockbroker with the firm of Snarking, Spittle, and Clump.
Once Reginald got his bearings in the City and began to apply himself to the business at hand, he actually did quite well. Being a stockbroker was, after all, merely another form of gambling.