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. Ã 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!
Smith. Where’s 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. Deaking, split me!
Brodie. We don’t often see England’s 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. O Captain! you flatter me. (We Scotsmen have our qualities, I suppose, but we are but rough and ready at the best. There’s 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 don’t know if you can lie, but, sink me! you shall sit. (Drinking, etc., in dumb-show.)
Moore (aside to Smith). We’ve nobbled him, Geordie!
Smith (aside to Moore). As neat as ninepence! He’s taking it down like mother’s milk. But there’ll be wigs on the green to-morrow, Badger! It’ll be twopence and toddle with George Smith.
Moore. O, muck! Who’s 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). I’m sayin’ – ?
Moore. What’s up now?
Ainslie. I’m no’ to gie him the coggit dice?
Moore. The square ones, rot you! Ain’t he got to lose every brass farden?
Ainslie. What’ll 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 Fortune’s 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. Cool’s the word, Captain – a cool twenty on the first?
Rivers. Done and done. (They play.)
Hunt (aside to Moore, a little drunk). Ain’t that ’ere Scots gentleman, your friend, too drunk to play, sir?
Moore. You hold your jaw; that’s what’s the matter with you.
Ainslie. He’s waur nor he looks. He’s knockit the box aff the table.
Smith (picking up box). That’s the way we does it. Ten to one and no takers!
Brodie. Deuces again! More liquor, Mother Clarke!
Smith. Hooray, our side! (Pouring out.) George and his pal for ever!
Brodie. Deuces again, by heaven! Another?
Rivers.
