MOORE. O muck! Who's afraid of him? (_To_ AINSLIE.) Hang on, Slinkie.
HUNT (_who is feigning drunkenness_, _and has overheard; aside_). By jingo!
[RIVERS. Will you sneeze, Mr. Deakin, sir?
BRODIE. Thanks; I have all the vices, Captain. You must send me some of your rappee. It is passatively perfect.]
RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, I do myself the _h_anar of a sip to you.
BRODIE. Topsy-turvy with the can!
MOORE (_aside to_ SMITH). That made him wink.
BRODIE. Your high and mighty hand, my Captain! Shall we dice-dice-dice?
(_Dumb-show between them_.)
AINSLIE (_aside to_ MOORE). I'm sayin'-?
MOORE. What's up now?
AINSLIE. I'm no to gie him the coggit dice?
MOORE. The square ones, rot you! Ain't he got to lose every brass farden?
AINSLIE. What'll like be my share?
MOORE. You mucking well leave that to me.
RIVERS. Well, Mr. Deakin, if you passatively will have me shake a _h_elbow-
BRODIE. Where are the bones, Ainslie? Where are the dice, Lord George?
(AINSLIE _gives the dice and dice-box to_ BRODIE; _and privately a second pair of dice_.) Old Fortune's counters the bonnie money-catching, money-breeding bones! Hark to their dry music! Scotland against England! Sit round, you tame devils, and put your coins on me!
SMITH. Easy does it, my lord of high degree! Keep cool.
BRODIE. Cool's the word, Captain-a cool twenty on the first?
RIVERS. Done and done. (_They play_.)
HUNT (_aside to_ MOORE, _a little drunk_). Ain't that 'ere Scotch gentleman, your friend, too drunk to play, sir?
MOORE. You hold your jaw; that's what's the matter with you.
AINSLIE. He's waur nor he looks. He's knockit the box aff the table.
SMITH (_picking up box_). That's the way we does it. Ten to one and no takers!
BRODIE. Deuces again! More liquor, Mother Clarke!
SMITH. Hooray our side! (_Pouting out_.) George and his pal for ever!
BRODIE. Deuces again, by heaven! Another?
RIVERS. Done!
BRODIE. Ten more; money's made to go. On with you!
RIVERS. Sixes.
BRODIE. Deuce-ace. Death and judgment? Double or quits?
RIVERS. Drive on! Sixes.
SMITH. Fire away, brave boys! (_To_ MOORE) It's Tally-ho-the-Grinder, Hump!
BRODIE. Treys! Death and the pit! How much have you got there?
RIVERS. A cool forty-five.
BRODIE. I play you thrice the lot.
RIVERS. Who's afraid?
SMITH. Stand by, Badger!
RIVERS. Cinq-ace.
BRODIE. My turn now. (_He juggles in and uses the second pair of dice_.) Aces! Aces again! What's this? (_Picking up dice_.) Sold! . . .
You play false, you hound!
RIVERS. You lie!
BRODIE. In your teeth. (_Overturns table_, _and goes for him_.)
MOORE. Here, none o' that. (_They hold him back_. _Struggle_.)
SMITH. Hold on, Deacon!
BRODIE. Let me go. Hands off, I say! I'll not touch him. (_Stands weighing dice in his hand_.) But as for that thieving whinger, Ainslie, I'll cut his throat between this dark and to-morrow's. To the bone.
(_Addressing the company_.) Rogues, rogues, rogues! (_Singing without_.) Ha! what's that?
AINSLIE. It's the psalm-singing up by at the Holy Weaver's. And O Deacon, if ye're a Christian man-
THE PSALM WITHOUT:-
'Lord, who shall stand, if Thou, O Lord, Should'st mark iniquity?
But yet with Thee forgiveness is, That feared Thou may'st be.'
BRODIE. I think I'll go. 'My son the Deacon was aye regular at kirk.'