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_.) SCENE IV HUNT (_solus_) 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 Dock, 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 SCENE I _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].