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. Hes a patter-cove from Seven Dials. Hillo! whats all this?
Ainslie. Dod, Im for nae mair! (At back, and rising.)
Players. Sit down, Ainslie. Sit down, Andra. Ma revenge!
Ainslie. Na, na, Im for canny goin. (Coming forward with bottle.) Deacon, lets see your gless.
Brodie. Not an inch of it.
Moore. No rotten shirking, Deacon!
[Ainslie. Im sayin, man, lets see your gless.
Brodie. Go to the deuce!]
Ainslie. But Im sayin
Brodie. Havent I to play to-night?
Ainslie. But, man, yell drink to bonnie Jean Watt?
Brodie. Ay, Ill follow you there. A la reine de mes amours! (Drinks.) What fiend put this in your way, you hound? Youve filled me with raw stuff. By the muckle deil!
Moore. Dont hit him, Deacon; tell his mother.
Hunt (aside). Oho!
SCENE III To these, Smith, RiversSmith. Wheres 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 dont often see Englands 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. Theres 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 hanar of a neam.
Brodie. By these most hanarable 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 dont know if you can lie, but, sink me! you shall sit. (Drinking, etc., in dumb-show.)
Moore (aside to Smith). Weve nobbled him, Geordie!
Smith (aside to Moore). As neat as ninepence! Hes taking it down like mothers milk. But therell be wigs on the green to-morrow, Badger! Itll be tuppence and toddle with George Smith.
Moore. O muck! Whos 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 hanar 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). Im sayin ?
Moore. Whats up now?
Ainslie. Im no to gie him the coggit dice?
Moore. The square ones, rot you! Aint he got to lose every brass farden?
Ainslie. Whatll like be my share?
Moore. You mucking well leave that to me.
Rivers. Well, Mr. Deakin, if you passatively will have me shake a helbow
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 Fortunes 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. Cools the word, Captain a cool twenty on the first?
Rivers. Done and done. (They play.)
Hunt (aside to Moore, a little drunk). Aint that ere Scotch gentleman, your friend, too drunk to play, sir?
Moore. You hold your jaw; thats whats the matter with you.
Ainslie. Hes waur nor he looks. Hes knockit the box aff the table.
Smith (picking up box). Thats 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; moneys 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) Its 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. Whos 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! Whats 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! Ill not touch him. (Stands weighing dice in his hand.) But as for that thieving whinger, Ainslie, Ill cut his throat between this dark and to-morrows. To the bone. (Addressing the company.) Rogues, rogues, rogues! (Singing without.) Ha! whats that?
Ainslie. Its the psalm-singing up by at the Holy Weavers. And O Deacon, if yere a Christian man
The Psalm Without:
Lord, who shall stand, if Thou, O Lord,
Shouldst mark iniquity?
But yet with Thee forgiveness is,
That feared Thou mayst be.
Brodie. I think Ill go. My son the Deacon was aye regular at kirk. If the old man could see his son, the Deacon! I think Ill Ay, who shall stand? Theres the rub! And forgiveness, too? Theres 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 theres no fool like an old fool! (Becoming conscious of the others.) Rogues!