Chapter 47

HUNT _and_ OFFICERS; _with_ SMITH _and_ MOORE _handcuffed_. _Signs of a severe struggle_

HUNT (_entering_). Bring ’em along, lads! (_Looking at prisoners with lantern_.) Pleased to see you again, Badger. And you too, George. But I’d rather have seen your principal. Where’s he got to?

MOORE. To hell, I hope.

HUNT. Always the same pretty flow of language, I see, Hump. (_Looking at burglary with lantern_.) A very tidy piece of work, Dook; very tidy! Much too good for you. Smacks of a fine tradesman. It _was_ the Deacon, I suppose?

SMITH. You ought to know G. S. better by this time, Jerry.

HUNT. All right, your Grace: we’ll talk it over with the Deacon himself. Where’s the jackal? Here, you, Ainslie! Where are you? By jingo, I thought as much. Stabbed to the heart and dead as a herring!

SMITH. Bravo!

HUNT. More of the Deacon’s work, I guess? Does him credit too, don’t it, Badger?

MOORE. Muck. Was that the thundering cove that peached?

HUNT. That was the thundering cove.

MOORE. And is he corpsed?

HUNT. I should just about reckon he was.

MOORE. Then, damme, I don’t mind swinging!

HUNT. We’ll talk about that presently. M’Intyre and Stewart, you get a stretcher, and take that rubbish to the office. Pick it up; it’s only a dead informer. Hand these two gentlemen over to Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, with Mr. Jerry Hunt’s compliments. Johnstone and Syme, you come along with me. I’ll bring the Deacon round myself.

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ACT-DROP