SMITH. But he won't last, Jean, and when he leaves you, you come to me.
Is that your taste in pastry? That's the kind of harticle that I present.
HUNT (_surprising them as in Tableau I_.). Why, you're the very parties I was looking for!
JEAN. Mercy me!
SMITH. Damn it, Jerry, this is unkind.
HUNT. [Now this is what I call a picter of good fortune.] Ain't it strange I should have dropped across you comfortable and promiscuous like this?
JEAN (_stolidly_). I hope ye're middling weel, Mr. Hunt? (_Going_.) Mr. Smith!
SMITH. Mrs. Watt, ma'am! (_Going_.)
HUNT. Hold hard, George. Speaking as one lady's man to another, turn about's fair play. You've had your confab, and now I'm going to have mine. [Not that I've done with you; you stand by and wait.] Ladies first, George, ladies first; that's the size of it. (_To_ JEAN, _aside_.) Now, Mrs. Watt, I take it you ain't a natural fool?
JEAN. And thank ye kindly, Mr. Hunt.
SMITH (_interfering_). Jean . . . !
HUNT (_keeping him off_). Half a tick, George. (_To_ JEAN.) Mrs. Watt, I've a warrant in my pocket. One, two, three: will you peach?
JEAN. Whaten kind of a word'll that be?
SMITH. Mum it is, Jean!
HUNT. _When_ you've done dancing, George! (_To_ JEAN.) It ain't a pretty expression, my dear, I own it. 'Will you blow the gaff?' is perhaps more tenderer.
JEAN. I think ye've a real strange way o' expressin yoursel'.
HUNT (_to_ JEAN). I can't waste time on you, my girl. It's now or never. Will you turn king's evidence?
JEAN. I think ye'll have made a mistake, like.
HUNT. Well, I'm . . . ! (_Separating them_.) [No, not yet; don't push me.] George's turn now. (_To_ GEORGE.) George, I've a warrant in my pocket.
SMITH. As per usual, Jerry?
HUNT. Now I want king's evidence.
SMITH. Ah! so you came a cropper with _her_, Jerry. Pride had a fall.
HUNT. A free pardon and fifty shiners down.
SMITH. A free pardon, Jerry?
HUNT. Don't I tell you so?
SMITH. And fifty down? fifty?
HUNT. On the nail.
SMITH. So you came a cropper with her, and then you tried it on with me?
HUNT. I suppose you mean you're a born idiot?
SMITH. What I mean is, Jerry, that you've broke my heart. I used to look up to you like a party might to Julius Caesar. One more of boyhood's dreams gone pop. (_Enter_ MOORE, _L._)
HUNT (_to both_). Come, then, I'll take the pair, and be damned to you.
Free pardon to both, fifty down and the Deacon out of the way. I don't care for you commoners, it's the Deacon I want.
JEAN (_looking off stolidly_). I think the kirks are scalin'. There seems to be mair people in the streets.
HUNT. O that's the way, is it? Do you know that I can hang you, my woman, and your fancy man a well?
JEAN. I daur say ye would like fine, Mr. Hunt; and here's my service to you. (_Going_.)
HUNT. George, don't you be a tomfool, anyway. Think of the blowen here, and have brains for two.
SMITH (_going_). Ah, Jerry, if you knew anything, how different you would talk! (_They go together_, _R._)
SCENE III
HUNT, MOORE
HUNT. Half a tick, Badger. You're a man of parts, you are; you're solid, you're a true-born Englishman; you ain't a Jerry-go-Nimble like him. Do you know what your pal the Deacon's worth to you? Fifty golden Georges and a free pardon. No questions asked, and no receipts demanded.
What do you say? Is it a deal?
MOORE (_as to himself_). Muck. (_He goes out_, _R._)
SCENE IV
HUNT, _to whom_ AINSLIE
HUNT (_looking after them ruefully_). And these were the very parties I was looking for! [Ah, Jerry, Jerry, if they knew this at the office!]
Well, the market price of that 'ere two hundred is a trifle on the decline and fall. (_Looking L._) Hullo! (_Slapping his thigh_). Send me victorious! It's king's evidence on two legs. (_Advancing with great cordiality to meet_ AINSLIE, _who enters L._) And so your name's Andrew Ainslie, is it? As I was saying, you're the very party I was looking for. Ain't it strange, now, that I should have dropped across you comfortable and promiscuous like this?
AINSLIE. I dinna ken wha ye are, an' I'm ill for my bed.
HUNT. Let your bed wait, Andrew. I want a little chat with you; just a quiet little sociable wheeze. Just about our friends, you know. About Badger Moore, and George the Dook, and Jemmy Rivers, and Deacon Brodie, Andrew. Particularly Deacon Brodie.
AINSLIE. They're nae friens o' mine's, mister. I ken naething an'
naebody. An' noo I'll get to my bed, wulln't I?