forbear.
The play was long of being acted out--it was no common play; besides, it
is time for _our_ actors to come upon the stage themselves.

"I see old Hitchin," exclaimed Oliver Trembath, starting suddenly out of
a reverie, and pointing into the thickest of the crowd.

"How can you tell? you don't know him," said his companion.

"Know him! Of course I do; who could fail to know him after the graphic
description the lawyer gave of him? See--look yonder, beside the cart
with the big man in it arranging baskets. D'you see?"

"Which? the one painted green, and a scraggy horse with a bag hanging to
its nose?"

"No, no; a little further to the left, man--the one with the broken rail
and the high-spirited horse. There, there he is! a thin, dried-up,
wrinkled, old shabby--"

"Ah! that's the man," exclaimed Tregarthen, laughing. "Come along, and
let's try to keep our eyes on him, for there is nothing so difficult as
finding any one in a crowd."

The difficulty referred to was speedily illustrated by the fact that the
two friends threaded their way to the spot where the cart had stood, and
found not only that it was gone, but that Hitchin had also moved away,
and although they pushed through the crowd for more than a quarter of an
hour they failed to find him.

As they were wandering about thus, they observed a very tall
broad-shouldered man talking earnestly in undertones to a sailor-like
fellow who was still broader across the shoulders, but not quite so
tall. It is probable that Oliver would have paid no attention to them,
had not the name of Hitchin struck his ear. Glancing round at the men
he observed that the taller of the two was Joe Tonkin, and the other his
friend of the Land's End, the famous Jim Cuttance.

Oliver plucked his companion by the sleeve, and whispered him to stand
still. Only a few words and phrases reached them, but these were
sufficient to create surprise and arouse suspicion. Once, in
particular, Tonkin, who appeared to be losing his temper, raised his
voice a little, exclaiming,--"I tell 'ee what it is, Cuttance, I do knaw
what you're up to, an' I'll hinder 'ee ef I can."

The man confirmed this statement with a savage oath, to which Cuttance
replied in kind; nevertheless he was evidently anxious to conciliate his
companion, and spoke so low as to be nearly inaudible.

Only the words, "Not to-night; I won't do it to-night," reached the ears
of the listeners.

At this point Ton