The scene of action was in a field at Long Marsden, on a farm belonging to a Mr. Pratt; and thither the Commissary proceeded to make his arrangements, and thither also the immense cavalcade of equestrians and charioteers, as well as innumerable groups of pedestrians, took their way in due time. On the last occasion the unlucky “footpads” were thrown out entirely, but on this they had undoubtedly the best of it, for they, by means of short cuts and familiar paths, shortened their pleasant journey, while those who were on four legs――or worse, on wheels――were compelled to scramble and jolt over roads of the most villainous description, in which the most imminent risks of spills or a break-down were only avoided by care and good luck. In fact, many of those who endured the miseries of both roads declared, that the sixteen miles between the Andover road and Crookham Common, with all its horrors, was surpassed by the shorter journey from Stratford to Long Marsden. The spot was admirably selected, and the ropes and stakes pitched upon a piece of sound, elastic turf that delighted the _cognoscenti_. The immense multitude, as they arrived, arranged themselves in a most orderly, methodical manner. The day was beautiful, the country around green, fresh, and odoriferous with the blossoms of the may. Everything was conducted in a style to ensure general satisfaction. Caunt made his appearance first, with an oddly assorted pair of seconds as ever handled a champion in the P.R. They were old Ben Butler, his uncle, well known in after times in the parlour of the “Coach and Horses;” a man well stricken in years, and a cross-grained old curmudgeon to boot. With him appeared Atkinson, of Nottingham, a 9½ stone man, whose disparity of size with the man he was supposed to pick up excited the risibility of old ring-goers. Benjamin himself, however, seemed particularly well satisfied, and remarked laughingly, in reply to a jocose observation of a bystander, “Never thee mind――_I’m_ not goin’ to tummle down; he’s big enow for me!” Had the fight which ensued been of the desperate character of Ben’s late encounter with Brassey, the ill-assorted pair could about as much have carried Colossus Caunt to his corner as they could have carried the Achilles in Hyde Park. Nick had with him, as on the former occasion, Harry Holt and Dick Curtis, certainly the two ablest counsellors on the Midland, Northern, or any other Circuit. Tom Spring, who was in friendly attendance upon Caunt, addressed an emphatic warning to the big one to keep his temper, cautioning him not to play into the hands of his opponent by allowing himself to be irritated by his shifty dodges. Caunt listened with a grim, self-satisfied smile, and nodded his head, as much as to say he was not going to be caught this time. Each man, in reply to a question, declared he “never felt better in his life,” and their looks justified the assertion. Caunt was a little