The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 15

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 Scotsman 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. Whatten 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 as well?

Jean. I daur say ye would like fine to, 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 off together, R.)

SCENE III

Hunt, Moore

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.)

SCENE IV

Hunt, to whom Ainslie

Hunt (looking after them ruefully). And these were the very parties I was looking for! (Ah, Jerry, Jerry, if they knew this at the office!) Well, the market price of that ’ere two hundred is a trifle on the decline and fall. (Looking L.) Hullo! (Slapping his thigh.) Send me victorious! It’s King’s evidence on two legs. (Advancing with great cordiality to meet Ainslie, who enters L.) And so your name’s Andrew Ainslie, is it? As I was saying, you’re the very party I was looking for. Ain’t it strange, now, that I should have dropped across you comfortable and promiscuous like this?

Ainslie. I dinna ken wha ye are, and I’m ill for my bed.

Hunt. Let your bed wait, Andrew. I want a little chat with you; just a quiet little sociable wheeze. Just about our friends, you know. About Badger Moore, and George the Dook, and Jemmy Rivers, and Deacon Brodie, Andrew. Particularly Deacon Brodie.

Ainslie. They’re nae frien’s o’ mine, mister. I ken naething an’ naebody. An’ noo I’ll get to my bed, wulln’t I?