pals, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. Lord love you, sir, I don’t know what the profession would do without ’em!
Lawson. Ye’re vera richt, Hunt. An active and a watchful officer, I’ll send her in till ye.
Hunt (solus). Two hundred pounds reward. Curious thing. One burglary after another, and these Scots 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!
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 shawl, Mrs. Watt. (I should like to take its next-door neighbour to Mrs. Hunt in King Street, Common Garden.) What’s about the figure?
Jean. It’s paid for. Ye can sweir to that.
Hunt. Yes, my dear, and so is King George’s crown; but I don’t know what it cost, and I don’t know where the blunt came from to pay for it.
Jean. I’m thinking ye’ll be a vera clever gentleman.
Hunt. So I am, my dear; and I like you none the worse for being artful yourself. But between friends now, and speaking as a family man —
Jean. I’ll be wishin’ ye a fine nicht. (Curtsies and goes out.)
Hunt. Ah! that’s it, is it? “My fancy man’s my ’ole delight,” as we say in Bow Street. But which is the fancy man? George the Dook, or William the Deacon? One or both? (He winks solemnly.) Well, Jerry, my boy, here’s your work cut out for you; but if you took one-nine-five for that ere little two hundred you’d be a disgrace to the profession.
TABLEAU III
Mother Clarke’s
The Stage represents a room of coarse and sordid appearance: settles, spittoons, etc.; sanded floor. A large table at back, where Ainslie, Hamilton, and others are playing cards and quarrelling. In front, L. and R., smaller tables, at one of which are Brodie and Moore, drinking. Mrs. Clarke and women serving.
Moore. You’ve got the devil’s own luck, Deacon, that’s what you’ve got.
Brodie. Luck! Don’t talk of luck to a man like me! Why not say I’ve the devil’s own judgment? Men of my stamp don’t risk – they plan, Badger; they plan, and leave chance to such cattle as you (and Jingling Geordie. They make opportunities before they take them).
Moore. You’re artful, ain’t you?
Brodie. Should I be here else? When I leave my house I leave an alibi behind me. I’m ill – ill with a jumping headache, and the fiend’s own temper. I’m sick in bed this minute, and they’re all going about with the fear of death on them lest they should disturb the poor sick Deacon. (My bedroom door is barred and bolted like the bank – you remember! – and all the while the window’s open, and the Deacon’s over the hills and far away. What do you think of me?)
Moore. I’ve seen your sort before, I have.
Brodie. Not you. As for Leslie’s —
Moore. That was a nick above you.
Brodie. Ay was it. He wellnigh took me red-handed; and that was better luck than I deserved. If I’d not been drunk and in my tantrums, you’d never have got my hand within a thousand years of such a job.
Moore. Why not? You’re the King of the Cracksmen, ain’t you?
Brodie. Why not! He asks me why not! Gods what a brain it is! Hark ye, Badger, it’s all very well to be King of the Cracksmen, as you call it; but however respectable he may have the misfortune to be, one’s friend is one’s friend, and as such must be severely let alone. What! shall there be no more honour among thieves than there is honesty among politicians? Why, man, if under heaven there were but one poor lock unpicked, and that the lock of one whose claret you’ve drunk, and who has babbled of woman across your own mahogany – that lock, sir, were entirely sacred. Sacred as the Kirk of Scotland; sacred as King George upon his throne; sacred as the memory of Bruce and Bannockburn.
Moore. O, rot! I ain’t a parson, I ain’t; I never had no college education. Business is business. That’s wot’s the matter with me.
Brodie. Ay, so we said when you lost that fight with Newcastle Jemmy, and sent us home all poor men. That was a nick above you.
Moore. Newcastle Jemmy! Muck: that’s my opinion of him: muck. I’ll mop the floor up with him any day, if so be as you or any on ’em ’ll make it worth my while. If not, muck! That’s my motto. Wot I now ses is, about that ’ere