the ’appy ’art.” And how much, my dear – speaking as a family man – now, how much might your gentleman friend stand you in the course of a year?
Jean. What’s your wull?
Hunt. That’s a mighty fancy shawl, Mrs. Watt. (I should like to take its next-door neighbour to Mrs. Hunt in King Street, Common Garden.) What’s about the figure?
Jean. It’s paid for. Ye can sweir to that.
Hunt. Yes, my dear, and so is King George’s crown; but I don’t know what it cost, and I don’t know where the blunt came from to pay for it.
Jean. I’m thinking ye’ll be a vera clever gentleman.
Hunt. So I am, my dear; and I like you none the worse for being artful yourself. But between friends now, and speaking as a family man —
Jean. I’ll be wishin’ ye a fine nicht. (Curtsies and goes out.)
Hunt. Ah! that’s it, is it? “My fancy man’s my ’ole delight,” as we say in Bow Street. But which is the fancy man? George the Dook, or William the Deacon? One or both? (He winks solemnly.) Well, Jerry, my boy, here’s your work cut out for you; but if you took one-nine-five for that ere little two hundred you’d be a disgrace to the profession.
TABLEAU III
Mother Clarke’s
The Stage represents a room of coarse and sordid appearance: settles, spittoons, etc.; sanded floor. A large table at back, where Ainslie, Hamilton, and others are playing cards and quarrelling. In front, L. and R., smaller tables, at one of which are Brodie and Moore, drinking. Mrs. Clarke and women serving.
Moore. You’ve got the devil’s own luck, Deacon, that’s what you’ve got.
Brodie. Luck! Don’t talk of luck to a man like me! Why not say I’ve the devil’s own judgment? Men of my stamp don’t risk – they plan, Badger; they plan, and leave chance to such cattle as you (and Jingling Geordie. They make opportunities before they take them).
Moore. You’re artful, ain’t you?
Brodie. Should I be here else? When I leave my house I leave an alibi behind me. I’m ill – ill with a jumping headache, and the fiend’s own temper. I’m sick in bed this minute, and they’re all going about with the fear of death on them lest they should disturb the poor sick Deacon. (My bedroom door is barred and bolted like the bank – you remember! – and all the while the window’s open, and the Deacon’s over the hills and far away. What do you think of me?)
Moore. I’ve seen your sort before, I have.
Brodie. Not you. As for Leslie’s —
Moore. That was a nick above you.
Brodie. Ay was it. He wellnigh took me red-handed; and that was better luck than I deserved. If I’d not been drunk and in my tantrums, you’d never have got my hand within a thousand years of such a job.
Moore. Why not? You’re the King of the Cracksmen, ain’t you?
Brodie. Why not! He asks me why not! Gods what a brain it is! Hark ye, Badger, it’s all very well to be King of the Cracksmen, as you call it; but however respectable he may have the misfortune to be, one’s friend is one’s friend, and as such must be severely let alone. What! shall there be no more honour among thieves than there is honesty among politicians? Why, man, if under heaven there were but one poor lock unpicked, and that the lock of one whose claret you’ve drunk, and who has babbled of woman across your own mahogany – that lock, sir, were entirely sacred. Sacred as the Kirk of Scotland; sacred as King George upon his throne; sacred as the memory of Bruce and Bannockburn.
Moore. O, rot! I ain’t a parson, I ain’t; I never had no college education. Business is business. That’s wot’s the matter with me.
Brodie. Ay, so we said when you lost that fight with Newcastle Jemmy, and sent us home all poor men. That was a nick above you.
Moore. Newcastle Jemmy! Muck: that’s my opinion of him: muck. I’ll mop the floor up with him any day, if so be as you or any on ’em ’ll make it worth my while. If not, muck! That’s my motto. Wot I now ses is, about that ’ere crib at Leslie’s, wos I right, I ses? or wos I wrong? That’s wot’s the matter with you.
Brodie. You are both right and wrong. You dared me to do it. I was drunk; I was upon my mettle; and I as good as did it. More than that, blackguardly as it was, I enjoyed the doing. He is my friend. He had dined with me that day, and I felt like a man in a story. I climbed his wall, I crawled along his pantry roof, I mounted his window-sill. That one turn of my wrist – you know it! – and the casement was open. It was as dark as the pit, and I thought I’d won my wager, when, phewt! down went something inside, and down went somebody with it. I made one leap, and was off like a rocket. It was my poor friend in person; and if he’d caught and passed me on to the watchman under the window, I should have felt no viler rogue than I feel just now.
Moore. I s’pose he knows you pretty well by this time?
Brodie. ’Tis the worst of friendship. Here, Kirsty, fill these glasses. Moore, here’s better luck – and a more honourable plant! – next time.
Moore. Deacon, I looks towards you. But it looks thundering like rotten eggs, don’t it?
Brodie. I think not. I was masked, for one thing, and for another I was as quick as lightning. He suspects me so little that he dined with me this very afternoon.
Moore. Anyway, you ain’t game to try it on again, I’ll lay odds on that. Once bit, twice shy. That’s your motto.
Brodie. Right again. I’ll put my alibi to a better use. And, Badger, one word in your ear: there’s no Newcastle Jemmy about me. Drop the subject, and for good, or I shall drop you. (He rises, and walks backwards and forwards, a little unsteadily; then returns, and sits, L., as before.)
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,
