The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson

Jean. Thonder in the chair. (They go to look at him, their backs to the door.)

George. Is he alive?

Jean. I think there’s something wrong with him.

George. And how was you to-morrow, my valued old gentleman, eh?

Jean. Dinna mak’ a mock o’ him, Geordie.

Old Brodie. My son – the Deacon – Deacon of his trade.

Jean. He’ll be his feyther. (Hunt appears at door C., and stands looking on.)

Smith. The Deacon’s old man! Well, he couldn’t expect to have his quiver full of sich, could he, Jean? (To Old Brodie.) Ah, my Christian soldier, if you had, the world would have been more varigated. Mrs. Deakin (to Jean), let me introduce you to your dear papa.

Jean. Think shame to yoursel’! This is the Deacon’s house; you and me shouldna be here by rights; and if we are, it’s the least we can do to behave dacent. [This is no the way ye’ll mak’ me like ye.]

Smith. All right, Duchess. Don’t be angry.

SCENE V

To these, Hunt, C. (He steals down, and claps each one suddenly on the shoulder.)

Hunt. Is there a gentleman here by the name of Mr. Procurator-Fiscal?

Smith (pulling himself together). D – n it, Jerry, what do you mean by startling an old customer like that?

Hunt. What, my brave un’? You’re the very party I was looking for!

Smith. There’s nothing out against me this time?

Hunt. I’ll take odds there is. But it ain’t in my hands. (To Old Brodie.) You’ll excuse me, old genelman?

Smith. Ah, well, if it’s all in the way of friendship!.. I say, Jean, [you and me had best be on the toddle.] We shall be late for church.

Hunt. Lady, George?

Smith. It’s a – yes, it’s a lady. Come along, Jean.

Hunt. A Mrs. Deacon, I believe? [That was the name, I think?] Won’t Mrs. Deacon let me have a queer at her phiz?

Jean (unmuffling). I’ve naething to be ashamed of. My name’s Mistress Watt; I’m weel kennt at the Wynd heid; there’s naething again me.

Hunt. No, to be sure, there ain’t; and why clap on the blinkers, my dear? You that has a face like a rose, and with a cove like Jerry Hunt that might be your born father? [But all this don’t tell me about Mr. Procurator-Fiscal.]

George (in an agony). Jean, Jean, we shall be late. (Going with attempted swagger.) Well, ta-ta, Jerry.

SCENE VI

To these, C, Brodie and Lawson (greatcoat, muffler, lantern)

Lawson (from the door). Come your ways, Mistress Watt.

Jean. That’s the Fiscal himsel’.

Hunt. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I believe?

Lawson. That’s me. Who’ll you be?

Hunt. Hunt the Runner, sir; Hunt from Bow Street; English warrant.

Lawson. There’s a place for a’ things, officer. Come your ways to my office, with me and this guid wife.

Brodie (aside to Jean, as she passes with a curtsey). How dare you be here? (Aloud to Smith.) Wait you here, my man.

Smith. If you please, sir. (Brodie goes out, C.)

SCENE VII

Brodie, Smith

Brodie. What the devil brings you here?

Smith. Confound it, Deakin! Not rusty?

[Brodie. And not you only: Jean too! Are you mad?

Smith. Why, you don’t mean to say, Deakin, that you have been stodged by G. Smith, Esquire? Plummy old George?]

Brodie. There was my uncle the Procurator —

Smith. The Fiscal? He don’t count.

Brodie. What d’ye mean?

Smith. Well, Deakin, since Fiscal Lawson’s Nunkey Lawson, and it’s all in the family way, I don’t mind telling you that Nunkey Lawson’s a customer of George’s. We give Nunkey Lawson a good deal of brandy – G. S. and Co.’s celebrated Nantz.

Brodie. What! does he buy that smuggled trash of yours?

Smith. Well, we don’t call it smuggled in the trade, Deakin. It’s a wink, and King George’s picter between G. S. and the Nunks.

Brodie. Gad! that’s worth knowing. O Procurator, Procurator, is there no such thing as virtue? [Allons! It’s enough to cure a man of vice for this world and the other.] But hark you hither, Smith; this is all damned well in its way, but it don’t explain what brings you here.

Smith. I’ve trapped a pigeon for you.

Brodie. Can’t you pluck him yourself?

Smith. Not me. He’s too flash in the feather for a simple nobleman like George Lord Smith. It’s the great Capting Starlight, fresh in from York. [He’s exercised his noble art all the way from here to London. ‘Stand and deliver, stap my vitals!’] And the north road is no bad lay, Deakin.