On a bench, close by the last speaker, was seated Hitch, a police officer, who appeared to be quite at home with the company, and to occasion no alarm or misgivings; but the moment Peg mentioned the circumstance of "the cull that was hushed for his reader," he rose from the table, drew forth a pair of handcuffs, and tapping Knapp's rival on the shoulder, playfully whispered:
"Harry, my lad, the game's up; hold out your wrists for the ruffles."
"There they are, Mr. Hitch, though I suppose you'll be asking me in a week or so to hold out my gorge for a Tyburn tippet."
These proceedings naturally drew a crowd around the parties concerned; but though all sympathized with the prisoner, and the minion of the law was without any assistant, yet there was not the slightest attempt at a rescue, or even the least disposition manifested by the captive of a desire to escape.
"Only nine months on the pad, and to be up for scragging! What a pity!"
"He's too young--he hasn't had his lark half out; and it's like making a man pay a debt he don't owe, to twist him before he has gone the rounds."
"He'll die game for all that! Poor fellow! he takes it like a glass of egg-nog."
"Ah! Mr. Hitch! isn't it out of order, and he so green? You ought to give a chap a year to ripen for the hemp."
"Do, Hitch, give him a little longer rope, and take him in his regular turn. You're sure to have him, you know, when his time's up."
"O! stubble it, George. Hitch can't, or he would; for he never hurries a cove when it's left to himself."
"That's a fact, my kiddies," exclaimed the officer, who seemed pleased at the compliment; "but the commissioner wants Harry, and so, of course, I must pull him."
"I'm satisfied, whatever comes of it," added the prisoner.
Bell whispered in the officer's ear: "Couldn't you let him pike if I come down with a thimble and ten beans?"
Hitch departed with his prisoner, followed by Bell; but in a few minutes the latter returned and whispered to Knapp:
"Your client has slipped the darbys, and his name's Walker. Here's a flimsy, to lay low and bottle your gab."
The flash-panny was now in the full tide of successful operation--two thirds of its patrons being about three sheets in the wind, and none of them perfectly sober. In one corner there was a mill, wherein the combatants hit the wall more frequently than they hit each other. In another, two blowens were clapper-clawing each other for a bob-cull, who was seconding both parties, and declaring that the winner should have him. Here a snafler lay snoring on a bench, while a buzman, just half a degree less intoxicated, was endeavoring to pick his pocket. There, three cracksmen were engaged in a remarkably animated dispute on the state of the country. Under almost every table might be seen a son or daughter of Adam, luxuriating in the realms of Nod. But the bulk of the company were amusing themselves in a dance; for one of the fixtures of the establishment was an Irish piper, who, by the way, was a little fortune to it, for every one treated Pat.