plays [8]
I'll send her in till ye.
SCENE II
HUNT (SOLUS)
Two hundred pounds reward. Curious thing. One burglary after
another, and these Scotch blockheads without a man to show for
it. Jock runs east, and Sawney cuts west; everything's at a
deadlock; and they go on calling themselves thief-catchers! [By
jingo, I'll show them how we do it down South! Well, I've worn
out a good deal of saddle leather over Jemmy Rivers; but here's
for new breeches if you like.] Let's have another queer at the
list. (READS.) 'Humphrey Moore, otherwise Badger; aged forty,
thick-set, dark, close-cropped; has been a prize-fighter; no
apparent occupation.' Badger's an old friend of mine, 'George
Smith, otherwise the Dook, otherwise Jingling Geordie; red-haired
and curly, slight, flash; an old thimble-rig; has been a
stroller; suspected of smuggling; an associate of loose women.'
G. S., Esquire, is another of my flock. 'Andrew Ainslie,
otherwise Slink Ainslie; aged thirty-five; thin, white-faced,
lank-haired; no occupation; has been in trouble for reset of
theft and subornation of youth; might be useful as king's
evidence.' That's an acquaintance to make. 'Jock Hamilton,
otherwise Sweepie,' and so on. ['Willie M'Glashan,' hum - yes,
and so on, and so on.] Ha! here's the man I want. 'William
Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights, about thirty; tall, slim, dark;
wears his own hair; is often at Clarke's, but seemingly for
purposes of amusement only; [is nephew to the Procurator-Fiscal;
is commercially sound, but has of late (it is supposed) been
short of cash; has lost much at cock-fighting;] is proud, clever,
of good repute, but is fond of adventures and secrecy, and keeps
low company.' Now, here's what I ask myself: here's this list
of the family party that drop into Mother Clarke's; it's been in
the hands of these nincompoops for weeks, and I'm the first to
cry Queer Street! Two well-known cracksmen, Badger and the Dook!
why, there's Jack in the Orchard at once. This here topsawyer
work they talk about, of course that's a chalk above Badger and
the Dook. But how about our Mohock-tradesman? 'Purposes of
amusement!' What next? Deacon of the Wrights? and wright in
their damned lingo means a kind of carpenter, I fancy? Why,
damme, it's the man's trade! I'll look you up, Mr. William
Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights. As sure as my name's Jerry Hunt,
I wouldn't take one-ninety-nine in gold for my chance of that
'ere two hundred!
SCENE III
HUNT; to him JEAN
HUNT. Well, my dear, and how about your gentleman friend now?
How about Deacon Brodie?
JEAN. I dinna ken your name, sir, nor yet whae ye are; but this
is a very poor employ for ony gentleman - it sets ill wi' ony
gentleman to cast my shame in my teeth.
HUNT. Lord love you, my dear, that ain't my line of country.
Suppose you're not married and churched a hundred thousand times,
what odds to Jerry Hunt? Jerry, my Pamela Prue, is a cove as
might be your parent; a cove renowned for the ladies' friend [and
he's dead certain to be on your side]. What I can't get over is
this: here's this Mr. Deacon Brodie doing the genteel at home,
and leaving a nice young 'oman like you - as a cove may say - to
take it out on cold potatoes. That's what I can't get over, Mrs.
Watt. I'm a family man myself; and I can't get over it.
JEAN. And whae said that to ye? They lee'd whatever. I get
naething but guid by him; and I had nae richt to gang to his
house; and O, I just ken I've been the ruin of him!
HUNT. Don't you take on, Mrs. Watt. Why, now I hear you piping
up for him, I begin to think a lot of him myself. I like a cove
to be open-handed and free.
JEAN. Weel, sir, and he's a' that.
HUNT. Well, that shows what a wicked world this is. Why, they
told me - . Well, well, 'here's the open 'and and the 'appy
'art.' And how much, my dear - speaking as a family man - now,
how much might your gentleman friend stand you in the course of a
year?
JEAN. What's your wull?
HUNT. That's a mighty fancy
SCENE II
HUNT (SOLUS)
Two hundred pounds reward. Curious thing. One burglary after
another, and these Scotch blockheads without a man to show for
it. Jock runs east, and Sawney cuts west; everything's at a
deadlock; and they go on calling themselves thief-catchers! [By
jingo, I'll show them how we do it down South! Well, I've worn
out a good deal of saddle leather over Jemmy Rivers; but here's
for new breeches if you like.] Let's have another queer at the
list. (READS.) 'Humphrey Moore, otherwise Badger; aged forty,
thick-set, dark, close-cropped; has been a prize-fighter; no
apparent occupation.' Badger's an old friend of mine, 'George
Smith, otherwise the Dook, otherwise Jingling Geordie; red-haired
and curly, slight, flash; an old thimble-rig; has been a
stroller; suspected of smuggling; an associate of loose women.'
G. S., Esquire, is another of my flock. 'Andrew Ainslie,
otherwise Slink Ainslie; aged thirty-five; thin, white-faced,
lank-haired; no occupation; has been in trouble for reset of
theft and subornation of youth; might be useful as king's
evidence.' That's an acquaintance to make. 'Jock Hamilton,
otherwise Sweepie,' and so on. ['Willie M'Glashan,' hum - yes,
and so on, and so on.] Ha! here's the man I want. 'William
Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights, about thirty; tall, slim, dark;
wears his own hair; is often at Clarke's, but seemingly for
purposes of amusement only; [is nephew to the Procurator-Fiscal;
is commercially sound, but has of late (it is supposed) been
short of cash; has lost much at cock-fighting;] is proud, clever,
of good repute, but is fond of adventures and secrecy, and keeps
low company.' Now, here's what I ask myself: here's this list
of the family party that drop into Mother Clarke's; it's been in
the hands of these nincompoops for weeks, and I'm the first to
cry Queer Street! Two well-known cracksmen, Badger and the Dook!
why, there's Jack in the Orchard at once. This here topsawyer
work they talk about, of course that's a chalk above Badger and
the Dook. But how about our Mohock-tradesman? 'Purposes of
amusement!' What next? Deacon of the Wrights? and wright in
their damned lingo means a kind of carpenter, I fancy? Why,
damme, it's the man's trade! I'll look you up, Mr. William
Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights. As sure as my name's Jerry Hunt,
I wouldn't take one-ninety-nine in gold for my chance of that
'ere two hundred!
SCENE III
HUNT; to him JEAN
HUNT. Well, my dear, and how about your gentleman friend now?
How about Deacon Brodie?
JEAN. I dinna ken your name, sir, nor yet whae ye are; but this
is a very poor employ for ony gentleman - it sets ill wi' ony
gentleman to cast my shame in my teeth.
HUNT. Lord love you, my dear, that ain't my line of country.
Suppose you're not married and churched a hundred thousand times,
what odds to Jerry Hunt? Jerry, my Pamela Prue, is a cove as
might be your parent; a cove renowned for the ladies' friend [and
he's dead certain to be on your side]. What I can't get over is
this: here's this Mr. Deacon Brodie doing the genteel at home,
and leaving a nice young 'oman like you - as a cove may say - to
take it out on cold potatoes. That's what I can't get over, Mrs.
Watt. I'm a family man myself; and I can't get over it.
JEAN. And whae said that to ye? They lee'd whatever. I get
naething but guid by him; and I had nae richt to gang to his
house; and O, I just ken I've been the ruin of him!
HUNT. Don't you take on, Mrs. Watt. Why, now I hear you piping
up for him, I begin to think a lot of him myself. I like a cove
to be open-handed and free.
JEAN. Weel, sir, and he's a' that.
HUNT. Well, that shows what a wicked world this is. Why, they
told me - . Well, well, 'here's the open 'and and the 'appy
'art.' And how much, my dear - speaking as a family man - now,
how much might your gentleman friend stand you in the course of a
year?
JEAN. What's your wull?
HUNT. That's a mighty fancy