Chapter 8

_To these_, HUNT, _C._ (_He steals down_, _and claps each one suddenly on the shoulder_.)

HUNT. Is there a gentleman here by the name of Mr. Procurator-Fiscal?

SMITH (_pulling himself together_). D—n it, Jerry, what do you mean by startling an old customer like that?

HUNT. What, my brave un’? You’re the very party I was looking for!

SMITH. There’s nothing out against me this time?

HUNT. I’ll take odds there is. But it ain’t in my hands. (_To_ OLD BRODIE.) You’ll excuse me, old genelman?

SMITH. Ah, well, if it’s all in the way of friendship! . . . I say, Jean, [you and me had best be on the toddle.] We shall be late for church.

HUNT. Lady, George?

SMITH. It’s a—yes, it’s a lady. Come along, Jean.

HUNT. A Mrs. Deacon, I believe? [That was the name, I think?] Won’t Mrs. Deacon let me have a queer at her phiz?

JEAN (_unmuffling_). I’ve naething to be ashamed of. My name’s Mistress Watt; I’m weel kennt at the Wynd heid; there’s naething again me.

HUNT. No, to be sure, there ain’t; and why clap on the blinkers, my dear? You that has a face like a rose, and with a cove like Jerry Hunt that might be your born father? [But all this don’t tell me about Mr. Procurator-Fiscal.]

GEORGE (_in an agony_). Jean, Jean, we shall be late. (_Going with attempted swagger_.) Well, ta-ta, Jerry.