_To these_, HUNT, _disguised_
_He is disguised as a_ '_flying stationer_' _with a patch over his eye_.
_He sits at table opposite_ BRODIE'S _and is served with bread and cheese and beer_.
HAMILTON (_from behind_). The deevil tak' the cairts!
AINSLIE. Hoot, man, dinna blame the cairts.
MOORE. Look here, Deacon, I mean business, I do. (HUNT _looks up at the name of_ '_Deacon_.')
BRODIE. Gad, Badger, I never meet you that you do not. [You have a set of the most commercial intentions!] You make me blush.
MOORE. That's all blazing fine, that is! But wot I ses is, wot about the chips? That's what I ses. I'm after that thundering old Excise Office, I am. That's my motto.
BRODIE. 'Tis a very good motto, and at your lips, Badger, it kind of warms my heart. But it's not mine.
MOORE. Muck! why not?
BRODIE. 'Tis too big and too dangerous. I shirk King George; he has a fat pocket, but he has a long arm. [You pilfer sixpence from him, and it's three hundred reward for you, and a hue and cry from Tophet to the stars.] It ceases to be business; it turns politics, and I'm not a politician, Mr. Moore. (_Rising_.) I'm only Deacon Brodie.
MOORE. All right. I can wait.
BRODIE (_seeing_ HUNT). Ha, a new face,-and with a patch! [There's nothing under heaven I like so dearly as a new face with a patch.] Who the devil, sir, are you that own it? And where did you get it? And how much will you take for it second-hand?
HUNT. Well, sir, to tell you the truth (BRODIE _bows_) it's not for sale. But it's my own, and I'll drink your honour's health in anything.
BRODIE. An Englishman, too! Badger, behold a countryman. What are you, and what part of southern Scotland do you come from?
HUNT. Well, your honour, to tell you the honest truth-
[BRODIE (_bowing_). Your obleeged!]
HUNT. I knows a gentleman when I sees him, your honour [and, to tell your honour the truth-
BRODIE. _Je vous baise les mains_! (_Bowing_.)]
HUNT. A gentleman as is a gentleman, your honour [is always a gentleman, and to tell you the honest truth]-
BRODIE. Great heavens! answer in three words, and be hanged to you!
What are you, and where are you from?
HUNT. A patter-cove from Seven Dials.
BRODIE. Is it possible? All my life long have I been pining to meet with a patter-cove from Seven Dials! Embrace me, at a distance. [A patter-cove from Seven Dials!] Go, fill yourself as drunk as you dare, at my expense. Anything he likes, Mrs. Clarke. He's a patter-cove from Seven Dials. Hillo! what's all this?
AINSLIE. Dod, I'm for nae mair! (_At back_, _and rising_.)
PLAYERS. Sit down, Ainslie.-Sit down, Andra.-Ma revenge!
AINSLIE. Na, na, I'm for canny goin'. (_Coming forward with bottle_.) Deacon, let's see your gless.
BRODIE. Not an inch of it.
MOORE. No rotten shirking, Deacon!
[AINSLIE. I'm sayin', man, let's see your gless.
BRODIE. Go to the deuce!]
AINSLIE. But I'm sayin'-
BRODIE. Haven't I to play to-night?
AINSLIE. But, man, ye'll drink to bonnie Jean Watt?
BRODIE. Ay, I'll follow you there. _A la reine de mes amours_!
(_Drinks_.) What fiend put this in your way, you hound? You've filled me with raw stuff. By the muckle deil!-
MOORE. Don't hit him, Deacon; tell his mother.
HUNT (_aside_). Oho!
SCENE III
_To these_, SMITH, RIVERS.
SMITH. Where's my beloved? Deakin, my beauty, where are you? Come to the arms of George, and let him introduce you. Capting Starlight Rivers!
Capting, the Deakin: Deakin, the Capting. An English nobleman on the grand tour, to open his mind, by the Lard!
RIVERS. Stupendiously pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Deakin, split me!
[BRODIE. We don't often see England's heroes our way, Captain, but when we do, we make them infernally welcome.
RIVERS. Prettily put, sink me! A demned genteel sentiment, stap my vitals!]
BRODIE. Oh Captain! you flatter me. [We Scotsmen have our qualities, I suppose, but we are but rough and ready at the best. There's nothing like your Englishman for genuine distinction. He is nearer France than we are, and smells of his neighbourhood. That d-d thing, the _je ne sais quoi_, too! Lard, Lard, split me! stap my vitals! O such manners are pure, pure, pure. They are, by the shade of Claude Duval!]
RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, Mr. Deakin [this is passatively too much]. What will you sip? Give it the _h_anar of a neam.
BRODIE. By these most _h_anarable hands now, Captain, you shall not. On such an occasion I could play host with Lucifer himself. Here, Clarke, Mother Midnight! Down with you, Captain! (_forcing him boisterously into a chair_.) I don't know if you can lie, but, sink me! you shall sit.
(_Drinking_, _etc._, _in dumb-show_.)
MOORE (_aside to_ SMITH). We've nobbled him, Geordie!
SMITH (_aside to_ MOORE). As neat as ninepence! He's taking it down like mother's milk. But there'll be wigs on the green to-morrow, Badger!
It'll be tuppence and toddle with George Smith.