BRODIE (_to_ AINSLIE). Go you, and see if you’re good at keeping watch. Inside the arch. And if you let a footfall pass, I’ll break your back. (AINSLIE _retires_.) Steady with the light. (_At work with centrebit_.) Hand up number four, George. (_At work with picklock_.) That has it. SMITH. Well done our side. BRODIE. Now the crow bar! (_At work_.) That’s it. Put down the glim, Badger, and help at the wrench. Your whole weight, men! Put your backs to it! (_While they work at the bar_, BRODIE _stands by_, _dusting his hands with a pocket-handkerchief_. _As the door opens_.)_ Voilà_! In with you. MOORE (_entering with light_). Mucking fine work too, Deacon! BRODIE. Take up the irons, George! SMITH. How about the P(h)antom? BRODIE. Leave him to me. I’ll give him a look. (_Enters office_.) SMITH (_following_). Houp-là! SCENE III AINSLIE; _afterwards_ BRODIE; _afterwards_ HUNT _and_ OFFICERS AINSLIE. Ca’ ye that mainners? Ye’re grand gentry by your way o’t! Eh sirs, my hench! Ay, that was the Badger. Man, but ye’ll look bonnie hangin’! (_A faint whistle_.) Lord’s sake, what’s thon? Ay, it’ll be Hunt an’ his lads. (_Whistle repeated_.) Losh me, what gars him whustle, whustle? Does he think me deaf? (_Goes up_. BRODIE _enters from office_, _stands an instant_, _and sees him making a signal through the arch_.) BRODIE. Rats! Rats! (_Hides L. among lumber_. _Enter noiselessly through arch_ HUNT _and_ OFFICERS.) HUNT. Birds caught? AINSLIE. They’re a’ ben the house, mister. HUNT. All three? AINSLIE. The hale set, mister. BRODIE. Liar! HUNT. Mum, lads, and follow me. (_Exit_, _with his men_, _into office_. BRODIE _seen with dagger_.) HUNT (_within_). In the King’s name! MOORE (_within_). Muck! SMITH (_within_). Go it, Badger. HUNT (_within_). Take ’em alive, boys! AINSLIE. Eh, but that’s awful. (_The Deacon leaps out_, _and stabs him_. _He falls without a cry_.) BRODIE. Saved! (_He goes out by the arch_.) SCENE IV HUNT _and_ OFFICERS; _with_ SMITH _and_ MOORE _handcuffed_. _Signs of a severe struggle_ HUNT (_entering_). Bring ’em along, lads! (_Looking at prisoners with lantern_.) Pleased to see you again, Badger. And you too, George. But I’d rather have seen your principal. Where’s he got to? MOORE. To hell, I hope. HUNT. Always the same pretty flow of language, I see, Hump. (_Looking at burglary with lantern_.) A very tidy piece of work, Dook; very tidy! Much too good for you. Smacks of a fine tradesman. It _was_ the Deacon, I suppose? SMITH. You ought to know G. S. better by this time, Jerry. HUNT. All right, your Grace: we’ll talk it over with the Deacon himself. Where’s the jackal? Here, you, Ainslie! Where are you? By jingo, I thought as much. Stabbed to the heart and dead as a herring! SMITH. Bravo! HUNT. More of the Deacon’s work, I guess? Does him credit too, don’t it, Badger?