MOORE. O rot! Hand it over, and keep yourself out of that there thundering moonlight. SMITH (_lighting lantern_). All right, old mumble-peg. Don’t you get carried away by the fire of old Rome. That’s your motto. Here are the tools; a perfect picter of the sublime and beautiful; and all I hope is, that our friend and pitcher, the Deakin, will make a better job of it than he did last night. If he don’t, I shall retire from the business—that’s all; and it’ll be George and his little wife and a black footman till death do us part. MOORE. O muck! You’re all jaw like a sheep’s jimmy. That’s my opinion of you. When did you see him last? SMITH. This morning; and he looked as if he was rehearsing for his own epitaph. I never see such a change in a man. I gave him the office for to-night; and was he grateful? Did he weep upon my faithful bosom? No; he smiled upon me like a portrait of the dear departed. I see his ’art was far away; and it broke my own to look at him. MOORE. Muck! Wot I ses is, if a cove’s got that much of the nob about him, wot’s the good of his working single-handed? That’s wot’s the matter with him. SMITH. Well, old Father Christmas, he ain’t single-handed to-night, is he? MOORE. No, he ain’t; he’s got a man with him to-night. SMITH. Pardon me, Romeo; two men, I think? MOORE. A man wot means business. If I’d a bin with him last night, it ain’t psalm-singin’ would have got us off. Psalm-singin’? Muck! Let ’em try it on with me. AINSLIE. Losh me, I heard a noise. (_Alarm; they crouch into the shadow and listen_.) SMITH. All serene. (_To_ AINSLIE) Am I to cut that liver out of you? Now, am I? (_A whistle_.) ’St! here we are. (_Whistles a modulation_, _which is answered_.) SCENE II _To these_ BRODIE MOORE. Waiting for you, Deacon. BRODIE. I see. Everything ready? SMITH. All a-growing and a-blowing. BRODIE. Give me the light. (_Briefly examines tools and door with bull’s eye_.) You, George, stand by, and hand up the pieces. Ainslie, take the glim. Moore, out and watch. MOORE. I didn’t come here to do sentry-go, I didn’t. BRODIE. You came here to do as I tell you. (MOORE _goes up slowly_.) Second bunch, George. I know the lock. Steady with the glim. (_At work_.) No good. Give me the centrebit. SMITH. Right. (_Work continues_. AINSLIE _drops lantern_.) BRODIE. Curse you! (_Throttling and kicking him_.) You shake, and you shake, and you can’t even hold a light for your betters. Hey? AINSLIE. Eh Deacon, Deacon . . . SMITH. Now Ghost! (_With lantern_.) BRODIE. ’St, Moore! MOORE. Wot’s the row? BRODIE. Take you the light. MOORE (_to_ AINSLIE). Wo’ j’ yer shakin’ at? (_Kicks him_.)