Moore as usual.)
Moore. Wot did I tell you? Is he ’ere, or ain’t he? Now, then. Slink by name and Slink by nature, that’s wot’s the matter with him.
Jean. He’ll no be lang; he’s regular enough, if that was a’.
Moore. I’d regular him; I’d break his back.
Smith. Badger, you brute, you hang on to the lessons of your dancing-master. None but the genteel deserves the fair; does they, Duchess?
Moore. O rot! Did I insult the blowen? Wot’s the matter with me is Slink Ainslie.
Smith. All right, old Crossed-in-love. Give him forty winks, and he’ll turn up as fresh as clean sawdust and as respectable as a new Bible.
Moore. That’s right enough; but I ain’t agoing to stand here all day for him. I’m for a drop of something short, I am. You tell him I showed you that (showing his doubled fist). That’s wot’s the matter with him. (He lurches out, R.)
Smith (critically). No, Duchess, he has not good manners.
Jean. Ay, he’s an impident man.
Smith. So he is, Jean; and for the matter of that he ain’t the only one.
Jean. Geordie, I want nae mair o’ your nonsense, mind.
Smith. There’s our old particular the Deacon, now. Why is he ashamed of a lovely woman? That’s not my idea of the Young Chevalier, Jean. If I had luck, we should be married, and retire to our estates in the country, shouldn’t us? and go to church and be happy, like the nobility and gentry.
Jean. Geordie Smith, div ye mean ye’d mairry me?
Smith. Mean it? What else has ever been the ’umble petition of your honest but well-meaning friend, Roman, and fellow-countryman? I know the Deacon’s your man, and I know he’s a cut above G. S.; but he won’t last, Jean, and I shall.
Jean. Ay, I’m muckle ta’en up wi’ him; wha could help it?
Smith. Well, and my sort don’t grow on apple-trees either.
Jean. Ye’re a fine, cracky, neebourly body, Geordie, if ye wad just let me be.
Smith. I know I ain’t a Scotchman born.
Jean. I dinna think sae muckle the waur o’ ye even for that; if ye would just let me be.
[Hunt (entering behind, aside). Are they thick? Anyhow, it’s a second chance.]
Smith. But he won’t last, Jean, and when he leaves you, you come to me. Is that your taste in pastry? That’s the kind of harticle that I present.
Hunt (surprising them as in Tableau I.). Why, you’re the very parties I was looking for!
Jean. Mercy me!
Smith. Damn it, Jerry, this is unkind.
Hunt. [Now this is what I call a picter of good fortune.] Ain’t it strange I should have dropped across you comfortable and promiscuous like this?
Jean (stolidly). I hope ye’re middling weel, Mr. Hunt? (Going.) Mr. Smith!
Smith. Mrs. Watt, ma’am! (Going.)
Hunt. Hold hard, George. Speaking as one lady’s man to another, turn about’s fair play. You’ve had your confab, and now I’m going to have mine. [Not that I’ve done with you; you stand by and wait.] Ladies first, George, ladies first; that’s the size of it. (To Jean, aside.) Now, Mrs. Watt, I take it you ain’t a natural fool?
Jean. And thank ye kindly, Mr. Hunt.
Smith (interfering). Jean.. !
Hunt (keeping him off). Half a tick, George. (To Jean.) Mrs. Watt, I’ve a warrant in my pocket. One, two, three: will you peach?
Jean. Whaten kind of a word’ll that be?
Smith. Mum it is, Jean!
Hunt. When you’ve done dancing, George! (To Jean.) It ain’t a pretty expression, my dear, I own it. ‘Will you blow the gaff?’ is perhaps more tenderer.
Jean. I think ye’ve a real strange way o’ expressin yoursel’.
Hunt (to Jean). I can’t waste time on you, my girl. It’s now or never. Will you turn king’s evidence?
Jean. I think ye’ll have made a mistake, like.
Hunt. Well, I’m..! (Separating them.) [No, not yet; don’t push me.] George’s turn now. (To George.) George, I’ve a warrant in my pocket.
Smith. As per usual, Jerry?
Hunt. Now I want king’s evidence.
Smith. Ah! so you came a cropper with her, Jerry. Pride had a fall.
Hunt. A free pardon and fifty shiners down.
Smith. A free pardon, Jerry?
Hunt. Don’t I tell you so?
Smith. And fifty down? fifty?
Hunt. On the nail.
Smith. So you came a cropper with her, and then you tried it on with me?
Hunt. I suppose you mean you’re a born idiot?
Smith. What I mean is, Jerry, that you’ve broke my heart. I used to look up to you like a party might to Julius Cæsar. One more of boyhood’s dreams gone pop. (Enter Moore, L.)
Hunt (to both). Come, then, I’ll take the pair, and be damned to you. Free pardon to both, fifty down and the Deacon out of the way. I don’t care for you commoners, it’s the Deacon I want.
Jean (looking off stolidly). I think the kirks are scalin’. There seems to be mair people in the streets.
Hunt. O that’s the way, is it? Do you know that I can hang you, my woman, and your fancy man a well?
Jean. I daur say ye would like fine, Mr. Hunt; and here’s my service to you. (Going.)
Hunt. George, don’t you be a tomfool, anyway. Think of the blowen here, and have brains for two.
Smith (going). Ah, Jerry, if you knew anything, how different you would talk! (They go together, R.)
Hunt. Half a tick, Badger. You’re a man of parts, you are; you’re solid, you’re a true-born Englishman; you ain’t a Jerry-go-Nimble like him. Do you know what your pal the Deacon’s worth to you? Fifty golden Georges and a free pardon. No questions asked, and no receipts demanded. What do you say? Is it a deal?
Moore (as to himself). Muck. (He goes out, R.)
Hunt
