Chapter 20

_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 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. _À 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!