MOORE. We ain’t none of us got a stiver, that’s wot’s the matter with us. BRODIE. Is it? MOORE. Ay, strike me, it is! And wot we’ve got to is to put up the Excise. SMITH. It’s the last plant in the shrubbery Deakin, and it’s breaking George the gardener’s heart, it is. We really must! BRODIE. Must we? MOORE. Must’s the thundering word. I mean business, I do. BRODIE. That’s lucky. I don’t. MOORE. O, you don’t, don’t you? BRODIE. I do not. MOORE. Then p’raps you’ll tell us wot you thundering well do? BRODIE. What do I mean? I mean that you and that merry-andrew shall walk out of this room and this house. Do you suppose, you blockheads, that I am blind? I’m the Deacon, am I not? I’ve been your king and your commander. I’ve led you, and fed you, and thought for you with this head. And you think to steal a march upon a man like me? I see you through and through [I know you like the clock]; I read your thoughts like print. Brodie, you thought, has money, and won’t do the job. Therefore, you thought, we must rook him to the heart. And therefore, you put up your idiot cockney. And now you come round, and dictate, and think sure of your Excise? Sure? Are you sure I’ll let you pack with a whole skin? By my soul, but I’ve a mind to pistol you like dogs. Out of this! Out, I say, and soil my home no more. MOORE (_sitting_). Now look ’ere. Mr. bloody Deacon Brodie, you see this ’ere chair of yours, don’t you? Wot I ses to you is, here I am, I ses, and here I mean to stick. That’s my motto. Who the devil are you to do the high and mighty? You make all you can out of us, don’t you? and when one of your plants get cross, you order us out of the ken? Muck! That’s wot I think of you. Muck! Don’t you get coming the nob over me, Mr. Deacon Brodie, or I’ll smash you. BRODIE. You will? MOORE. Ay will I. If I thundering well swing for it. And as for clearing out? Muck! Here I am, and here I stick. Clear out? You try it on. I’m a man, I am. BRODIE. This is plain speaking. MOORE. Plain? Wot about your father as can’t walk? Wot about your fine-madam sister? Wot about the stone-jug, and the dock, and the rope in the open street? Is that plain? If it ain’t, you let me know, and I’ll spit it out so as it’ll raise the roof off this ’ere ken. Plain! I’m that cove’s master, and I’ll make it plain enough for him. BRODIE. What do you want of me? MOORE. Wot do I want of you? Now you speak sense. Leslie’s is wot I want of you. The Excise is wot I want of you. Leslie’s to-night and the Excise to-morrow. That’s wot I want of you, and wot I thundering well mean to get. BRODIE. Damn you! MOORE. Amen. But you’ve got your orders. BRODIE (_with pistol_). Orders? hey? orders? SMITH (_between them_). Deacon, Deacon!—Badger, are you mad? MOORE. Muck! That’s my motto. Wot I ses is, has he got his orders or has he not? That’s wot’s the matter with him.