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. Oh, 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 all home 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 crib at Leslie’s, wos I right, I ses? or wos I wrong? That’s wot’s the matter with you. BRODIE. You are both right and wrong. You dared me to do it. I was drunk; I was upon my mettle; and I as good as did it. More than that, black-guardly as it was, I enjoyed the doing. He is my friend. He had dined with me that day, and I felt like a man in a story. I climbed his wall, I crawled along his pantry roof, I mounted his window-sill. That one turn of my wrist—you know it I—and the casement was open. It was as dark as the pit, and I thought I’d won my wager, when, phewt! down went something inside, and down went somebody with it. I made one leap, and was off like a rocket. It was my poor friend in person; and if he’d caught and passed me on to the watchman under the window, I should have felt no viler rogue than I feel just now. MOORE. I s’pose he knows you pretty well by this time?