Chapter 18

_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!