plays [20]
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.)
SCENE II
SMITH and JEAN, to whom HUNT, and afterwards MOORE
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
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.)
SCENE II
SMITH and JEAN, to whom HUNT, and afterwards MOORE
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