BRODIE. Great heavens! answer in three words, and be hanged to you! What are you, and where are you from? HUNT. A patter-cove from Seven Dials. BRODIE. Is it possible? All my life long have I been pining to meet with a patter-cove from Seven Dials! Embrace me, at a distance. [A patter-cove from Seven Dials!] Go, fill yourself as drunk as you dare, at my expense. Anything he likes, Mrs. Clarke. He’s a patter-cove from Seven Dials. Hillo! what’s all this? AINSLIE. Dod, I’m for nae mair! (_At back_, _and rising_.) PLAYERS. Sit down, Ainslie.—Sit down, Andra.—Ma revenge! AINSLIE. Na, na, I’m for canny goin’. (_Coming forward with bottle_.) Deacon, let’s see your gless. BRODIE. Not an inch of it. MOORE. No rotten shirking, Deacon! [AINSLIE. I’m sayin’, man, let’s see your gless. BRODIE. Go to the deuce!] AINSLIE. But I’m sayin’— BRODIE. Haven’t I to play to-night? AINSLIE. But, man, ye’ll drink to bonnie Jean Watt? BRODIE. Ay, I’ll follow you there. _A la reine de mes amours_! (_Drinks_.) What fiend put this in your way, you hound? You’ve filled me with raw stuff. By the muckle deil!— MOORE. Don’t hit him, Deacon; tell his mother. HUNT (_aside_). Oho! SCENE III _To these_, SMITH, RIVERS. SMITH. Where’s my beloved? Deakin, my beauty, where are you? Come to the arms of George, and let him introduce you. Capting Starlight Rivers! Capting, the Deakin: Deakin, the Capting. An English nobleman on the grand tour, to open his mind, by the Lard! RIVERS. Stupendiously pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Deakin, split me! [BRODIE. We don’t often see England’s heroes our way, Captain, but when we do, we make them infernally welcome. RIVERS. Prettily put, sink me! A demned genteel sentiment, stap my vitals!] BRODIE. Oh Captain! you flatter me. [We Scotsmen have our qualities, I suppose, but we are but rough and ready at the best. There’s nothing like your Englishman for genuine distinction. He is nearer France than we are, and smells of his neighbourhood. That d—d thing, the _je ne sais quoi_, too! Lard, Lard, split me! stap my vitals! O such manners are pure, pure, pure. They are, by the shade of Claude Duval!] RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, Mr. Deakin [this is passatively too much]. What will you sip? Give it the _h_anar of a neam. BRODIE. By these most _h_anarable hands now, Captain, you shall not. On such an occasion I could play host with Lucifer himself. Here, Clarke, Mother Midnight! Down with you, Captain! (_forcing him boisterously into a chair_.) I don’t know if you can lie, but, sink me! you shall sit. (_Drinking_, _etc._, _in dumb-show_.) MOORE (_aside to_ SMITH). We’ve nobbled him, Geordie! SMITH (_aside to_ MOORE). As neat as ninepence! He’s taking it down like mother’s milk. But there’ll be wigs on the green to-morrow, Badger! It’ll be tuppence and toddle with George Smith.