"Ready's the word."
"Warehawk, then, and follow."
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.
The dance was yet in its fullest vigor, when Hitch returned and called Bell to one of the tables.
"Bell", said he, "I have been looking for you more eagerly than any of your lovers for several months past—though I found you at length by an accident. What have you done with the bloke?"
"Me, Hitch? Why, I have neither seen or heard of him."
"Come, Bell, it's no use our wasting time in small talk. You were with him the last night he was heard of."
"Not I, faith, Hitch. Bring me the book, and I'll swear No to that."