Chapter 19

_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.

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.’ If the old man could see his son, the Deacon! I think I’ll—Ay, who _shall_ stand? There’s the rub! And forgiveness, too? There’s a long word for you! I learnt it all lang syne, and now . . . hell and ruin are on either hand of me, and the devil has me by the leg. ‘My son, the Deacon . . . !’ Eh, God! but there’s no fool like an old fool! (_Becoming conscious of the others_.) Rogues!

SMITH. Take my arm, Deacon.

BRODIE. Down, dog, down! [Stay and be drunk with your equals.] Gentlemen and ladies, I have already cursed you pretty heavily. Let me do myself the pleasure of wishing you—a very—good evening. (_As he goes out_, HUNT, _who has been staggering about in the crowd_, _falls on a settle_, _as about to sleep_.)

* * * * *

ACT-DROP.