HUNT. It costs as much as though it was. And that reminds me, speaking as one sportsman to another, Mr. Deacon, I was sorry to hear that you’ve been dropping a hatful of money lately. BRODIE. You are very good. HUNT. Four hundred in three months, they tell me. BRODIE. Ah! HUNT. So they say, sir. BRODIE. They have a perfect right to say so, Mr. Hunt. HUNT. And you to do the other thing? Well, I’m a good hand at keeping close myself. BRODIE. I am not consulting you, Mr. Hunt; ’tis you who are consulting me. And if there is nothing else (_rising_) in which I can pretend to serve you . . . ? HUNT (_rising_). That’s about all, sir, unless you can put me on to anything good in the way of heckle and spur? I’d try to look in. BRODIE. O, come, Mr. Hunt, if you have nothing to do, frankly and flatly I have. This is not the day for such a conversation; and so good-bye to you. (_A knocking_, _C._) HUNT. Servant, Mr. Deacon. (SMITH _and_ MOORE, _without waiting to be answered_, _open and enter_, _C._ _They are well into the room before they observe_ HUNT.) [Talk of the Devil, sir!] BRODIE. What brings you here? (SMITH _and_ MOORE, _confounded by the officer’s presence_, _slouch together to right of door_. HUNT, _stopping as he goes out_, _contemplates the pair_, _sarcastically_. _This is supported by_ MOORE _with sullen bravado_; _by_ SMITH, _with cringing airiness_.) HUNT (_digging_ SMITH _in the ribs_). Why, you are the very parties I was looking for! (_He goes out_, _C._) SCENE VIII BRODIE, MOORE, SMITH MOORE. Wot was that cove here about? BRODIE (_with folded arms_, _half-sitting on bench_). He was here about you. SMITH (_still quite discountenanced_). About us? Scissors! And what did you tell him? BRODIE (_same attitude_). I spoke of you as I have found you. [I told him you were a disreputable hound, and that Moore had crossed a fight.] I told him you were a drunken ass, and Moore an incompetent and dishonest boxer. MOORE. Look here, Deacon! Wot’s up? Wot I ses is, if a cove’s got any thundering grudge agin a cove, why can’t he spit it out, I ses. BRODIE. Here are my answers (_producing purse and dice_). These are both too light. This purse is empty, these dice are not loaded. Is it indiscretion to inquire how you share? Equal with the Captain, I presume? SMITH. It’s as easy as my eye, Deakin. Slink Ainslie got letting the merry glass go round, and didn’t know the right bones from the wrong. That’s _h_all. BRODIE. [What clumsy liars you are! SMITH. In boyhood’s hour, Deakin, he were called Old Truthful. Little did he think—] BRODIE. What is your errand? MOORE. Business. SMITH. After the melancholy games of last night, Deakin, which no one deplores so much as George Smith, we thought we’d trot round—didn’t us, Hump? and see how you and your bankers was a-getting on. BRODIE. Will you tell me your errand? MOORE. You’re dry, ain’t you? BRODIE. Am I?