A siren of the streets.

Sheffield Weekly Telegraph, Saturday 14 March 1896

A queer adventure in Liverpool.

At times I am not so certain that Augustus Ganderton was quite the flat we imagined. True, it was that he would never join in at pool or snooker, but that would seem to have shown his common sense—supposing he’d got any, for he was such a rank duffer with a cue that he would have lost his money. Neither would he “chip in” when any of us sent away to Ostend to take a long shot about some good thing, which was bound to make rich men of us. But here again, as often as not, the pot boiled over, and Augustus saved his money. At poker, too, his decidedly handsome face, with its unchanging expression of good-humoured vacuity, stood him in good stead; and, having the proverbial “fool’s luck,” he as frequently as not, rose a winner. As for boxing (!), he was such an ass that, though we’d all in turns tried to teach him the beauty of “points” and scientific sparring, we’d long ago dropped that job in disgust; for so surely as one of us donned the gloves and attempted to explain the lead off with the left, the uppercut, or the right-hand cross-counter, so surely would Augustus, sooner or later, land a blundering slog which put an end to the contest, for to give him his due, he was as strong as a blacksmith, and could hit like a horse kicking!