HUNT. Let your bed wait, Andrew. I want a little chat with you; just a quiet little sociable wheeze. Just about our friends, you know. About Badger Moore, and George the Dook, and Jemmy Rivers, and Deacon Brodie, Andrew. Particularly Deacon Brodie. AINSLIE. They’re nae friens o’ mine’s, mister. I ken naething an’ naebody. An’ noo I’ll get to my bed, wulln’t I? HUNT. We’re going to have our little talk out first. After that perhaps I’ll let you go, and perhaps I won’t. It all depends on how we get along together. Now, in a general way, Andrew, and speaking of a man as you find him, I’m all for peace and quietness myself. That’s my usual game, Andrew, but when I do make a dust I’m considered by my friends to be rather a good hand at it. So don’t you tread upon the worm. AINSLIE. But I’m sayin’— HUNT. You leave that to me, Andrew. You shall do your pitch presently. I’m first on the ground, and I lead off. With a question, Andrew. Did you ever hear in your life of such a natural curiosity as a Bow Street Runner? AINSLIE. Aiblins ay an’ aiblins no. HUNT. ‘Aiblins ay and aiblins no.’ Very good indeed, Andrew. Now, I’ll ask you another. Did you ever see a Bow Street Runner, Andrew? With the naked eye, so to speak? AINSLIE. What’s your wull? HUNT. Artful bird! Now since we’re getting on so cosy _and_ so free, I’ll ask you another, Andrew. Should you like to see a Bow Street Runner? (_Producing staff_.) ’Cos, if so, you’ve only got to cast your eyes on me. Do you queer the red weskit, Andrew? Pretty colour, ain’t it? So nice and warm for the winter too. (AINSLIE _dives_, HUNT _collars him_.) No, you don’t. Not this time. Run away like that before we’ve finished our little conversation? You’re a nice young man, you are. Suppose we introduce our wrists into these here darbies? Now we shall get along cosier and freer than ever. Want to lie down, do you? All right! anything to oblige. AINSLIE (_grovelling_). It wasna me, it wasna me. It’s bad companions; I’ve been lost wi’ bad companions an’ the drink. An’ O mister, ye’ll be a kind gentleman to a puir lad, an’ me sae weak, an’ fair rotten wi’ the drink an’ that. Ye’ve a bonnie kind heart, my dear, dear gentleman; ye wadna hang sitchan a thing as me. I’m no fit to hang. They ca’ me the Cannleworm! An’ I’ll dae somethin’ for ye, wulln’t I? An’ ye’ll can hang the ithers? HUNT. I thought I hadn’t mistook my man. Now, you look here, Andrew Ainslie, you’re a bad lot. I’ve evidence to hang you fifty times over. But the Deacon is my mark. Will you peach, or wont you? You blow the gaff, and I’ll pull you through. You don’t, and I’ll scragg you as sure as my name’s Jerry Hunt. AINSLIE. I’ll dae onything. It’s the hanging fleys me. I’ll dae onything, onything no to hang. HUNT. Don’t lie crawling there, but get up and answer me like a man. Ain’t this Deacon Brodie the fine workman that’s been doing all these tip-topping burglaries?