Chapter 29

BRODIE, HUNT

HUNT (_hat in hand_). Mr. Deacon Brodie, I believe?

BRODIE. I am he, Mr----?

HUNT. Hunt, sir: an officer from Sir John Fielding of Bow Street.

BRODIE. There can be no better passport than the name. In what can I serve you?

HUNT. You'll excuse me, Mr. Deacon.

BRODIE. Your duty excuses you, Mr. Hunt.

HUNT. Your obedient. The fact is, Mr. Deacon (we in the office see a good deal of the lives of private parties; and I needn't tell a gentleman of your experience it's part of our duty to hold our tongues. Now), it comes to our knowledge that you are a trifle jokieous. Of course I know there ain't any harm in that. I've been young myself, Mr. Deacon, and speaking----

BRODIE. O, but pardon me, Mr. Hunt, I am not going to discuss my private character with you.

HUNT. To be sure you ain't. (And do I blame you? Not me.) But, speaking as one man of the world to another, you naturally see a great deal of bad company.

BRODIE. Not half so much as you do. But I see what you're driving at; and if I can illuminate the course of justice, you may command me. (_He sits, and motions HUNT to do likewise._)

HUNT. I was dead sure of it: and 'and upon 'art, Mr. Deacon, I thank you. Now--(_consulting pocket-book_)--did you ever meet a certain George Smith?

BRODIE. The fellow they call Jingling Geordie? (_HUNT nods._) Yes.

HUNT. Bad character?

BRODIE. Let us say ... disreputable.

HUNT. Any means of livelihood?

BRODIE. I really cannot pretend to guess. I have met the creature at cock-fights (which, as you know, are my weakness). Perhaps he bets.

HUNT. (Mr. Deacon, from what I know of the gentleman, I should say that if he don't--if he ain't open to any mortal thing--he ain't the man I mean.) He used to be about with a man called Badger Moore.

BRODIE. The boxer?

HUNT. That's him. Know anything of him?

BRODIE. Not much. I lost five pieces on him in a fight; and I fear he sold his backers.

HUNT. Speaking as one admirer of the noble art to another, Mr. Deacon, the losers always do. I suppose the Badger cock-fights like the rest of us?

BRODIE. I have met him in the pit.

HUNT. Well, it's a pretty sport. I'm as partial to a main as anybody.

BRODIE. It's not an elegant taste, Mr. Hunt.

HUNT. It costs as much as though it was. And that reminds me, speaking as one sportsman to another, Mr. Deacon, I was sorry to hear that you've been dropping a hatful of money lately.

BRODIE. You are very good.

HUNT. Four hundred in three months, they tell me.

BRODIE. Ah!

HUNT. So they say, sir.

BRODIE. They have a perfect right to say so, Mr. Hunt.

HUNT. And you to do the other thing? Well, I'm a good hand at keeping close myself.

BRODIE. I am not consulting you, Mr. Hunt; 'tis you who are consulting me. And if there is nothing else (_rising_) in which I can pretend to serve you...?

HUNT (_rising_). That's about all, sir, unless you can put me on to anything good in the way of heckle and spur? I'd try to look in.

BRODIE. O come, Mr. Hunt, if you have nothing to do, frankly and flatly I have. This is not the day for such a conversation; and so good-bye to you. (_A knocking, C._)

HUNT. Servant, Mr. Deacon. (_SMITH and MOORE, without waiting to be answered, open and enter, C. They are well into the room before they observe HUNT._) (Talk of the devil, sir!)

BRODIE. What brings you here? (_SMITH and MOORE, confounded by the officer's presence, slouch together to right of door. HUNT, stopping as he goes out, contemplates the pair, sarcastically. This is supported by MOORE with sullen bravado; by SMITH with cringing airiness._)

HUNT (_digging SMITH in the ribs_). Why, you are the very parties I was looking for! (_He goes out, C._)