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.)
Moore. Wot was that cove here about?
Brodie (with folded arms, half-sitting on bench). He was here about you.
Smith (still quite discountenanced). About us? Scissors! And what did you tell him?
Brodie (same attitude). I spoke of you as I have found you. (I told him you were a disreputable hound, and that Moore had crossed a fight.) I told him you were a drunken ass, and Moore an incompetent and dishonest boxer.
Moore. Look here, Deacon! Wot’s up? Wot I ses is, if a cove’s got any thundering grudge agin a cove, why can’t he spit it out, I ses.
Brodie. Here are my answers. (Producing purse and dice.) These are both too light. This purse is empty, these dice are not loaded. Is it indiscretion to inquire how you share? Equal with the Captain, I presume?
Smith. It’s as easy as my eye, Deakin. Slink Ainslie got letting the merry glass go round, and didn’t know the right bones from the wrong. That’s hall.
Brodie. (What clumsy liars you are!
Smith. In boyhood’s hour, Deakin, he were called Old Truthful. Little did he think – )
Brodie. What is your errand?
Moore. Business.
Smith. After the melancholy games of last night, Deakin, which no one deplores so much as George Smith, we thought we’d trot round – didn’t us, Hump? – and see how you and your bankers was a-getting on.
Brodie. Will you tell me your errand?
Moore. You’re dry, ain’t you?
Brodie. Am I?
Moore. We ain’t none of us got a stiver, that’s wot’s the matter with us.
Brodie. Is it?
Moore. Ay, strike me, it is! And wot we’ve got to do is to put up the Excise.
Smith. It’s the last plant in the shrubbery, Deakin, and it’s breaking George the gardener’s heart, it is. We really must!
Brodie. Must we?
Moore. Must’s the thundering word. I mean business, I do.
Brodie. That’s lucky. I don’t.
Moore. O, you don’t, don’t you?
Brodie. I do not.
Moore. Then p’raps you’ll tell us wot you thundering well do?
Brodie. What do I mean? I mean that you and that merry-andrew shall walk out of this room and this house. Do you suppose, you blockheads, that I am blind? I’m the Deacon, am I not? I’ve been your king and your commander. I’ve led you and fed you and thought for you with this head. And you think to steal a march upon a man like me? I see you through and through (I know you like the clock); I read your thoughts like print. Brodie, you thought, has money, and won’t do the job. Therefore, you thought, we must rook him to the heart. And therefore, you put up your idiot cockney. And now you come round, and dictate, and think sure of your Excise? Sure? Are you sure I’ll let you pack with a whole skin? By my soul, but I’ve a mind to pistol you like dogs. Out of this! Out, I say, and soil my home no more.
Moore (sitting). Now look ’ere. Mr. bloody Deacon Brodie, you see this ’ere chair of yours, don’t you? Wot I ses to you is, Here I am, I ses, and here I mean to stick. That’s my motto. Who the devil are you to do the high and mighty? You make all you can out of us, don’t you? and when one of your plants goes cross, you order us out of the ken? Muck! That’s wot I think of you. Muck! Don’t you get coming the nob over me, Mr. Deacon Brodie, or I’ll smash you.
Brodie. You will?
Moore.
