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 Tonkin turned from the smuggler with a fling, muttering in an undertone as he went, “I don’t b’lieve ’ee, Cuttance, for thee’rt a liard, so I’ll watch ’ee, booy.”
Oliver was about to follow Tonkin, when he observed Hitchin himself slowly wending his way through the crowd. He had evidently heard nothing of the conversation that appeared to have reference to himself, for he sauntered along with a careless air, and his hands in his pockets, as though he were an uninterested spectator of the busy scene.
Oliver at once accosted him, “Pray, sir, is your name Hitchin?”
“It is,” replied the old man, eyeing his interrogator suspiciously.
“Allow me to introduce myself, sir—Oliver Trembath, nephew to Mr Thomas Donnithorne of St. Just.”
Mr Hitchin held out his hand, and said that he was happy to meet with a nephew of his old friend, in the tone of a man who would much rather not meet either nephew or uncle.
Oliver felt this, so he put on his most insinuating air, and requested Mr Hitchin to walk with him a little aside from the crowd, as he had something of a private nature to say to him. The old man agreed, and the two walked slowly along the sands to the outskirts of the crowd, where young Tregarthen discreetly left them.
The moment Oliver broached the subject of the advance of money, Hitchin frowned, and the colour in his face betrayed suppressed anger.