SMITH (_pulling himself together_). D—n it, Jerry, what do you mean by startling an old customer like that? HUNT. What, my brave un’? You’re the very party I was looking for! SMITH. There’s nothing out against me this time? HUNT. I’ll take odds there is. But it ain’t in my hands. (_To_ OLD BRODIE.) You’ll excuse me, old genelman? SMITH. Ah, well, if it’s all in the way of friendship! . . . I say, Jean, [you and me had best be on the toddle.] We shall be late for church. HUNT. Lady, George? SMITH. It’s a—yes, it’s a lady. Come along, Jean. HUNT. A Mrs. Deacon, I believe? [That was the name, I think?] Won’t Mrs. Deacon let me have a queer at her phiz? JEAN (_unmuffling_). I’ve naething to be ashamed of. My name’s Mistress Watt; I’m weel kennt at the Wynd heid; there’s naething again me. HUNT. No, to be sure, there ain’t; and why clap on the blinkers, my dear? You that has a face like a rose, and with a cove like Jerry Hunt that might be your born father? [But all this don’t tell me about Mr. Procurator-Fiscal.] GEORGE (_in an agony_). Jean, Jean, we shall be late. (_Going with attempted swagger_.) Well, ta-ta, Jerry. SCENE VI _To these_, _C_, BRODIE and LAWSON (greatcoat, muffler, lantern). LAWSON (_from the door_). Come your ways, Mistress Watt. JEAN. That’s the Fiscal himsel’. HUNT. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I believe? LAWSON. That’s me. Who’ll you be? HUNT. Hunt the Runner, sir; Hunt from Bow Street; English warrant. LAWSON. There’s a place for a’ things, officer. Come your ways to my office, with me and this guid wife. BRODIE (_aside to_ JEAN, _as she passes with a curtsey_). How dare you be here? (_Aloud to_ SMITH.) Wait you here, my man. SMITH. If you please, sir. (BRODIE _goes out_, _C._) SCENE VII BRODIE, SMITH. BRODIE. What the devil brings you here? SMITH. _Con_found it, Deakin! Not rusty? [BRODIE. And not you only: Jean too! Are you mad? SMITH. Why, you don’t mean to say, Deakin, that you have been stodged by G. Smith, Esquire? Plummy old George?] BRODIE. There was my uncle the Procurator— SMITH. The Fiscal? He don’t count. BRODIE. What d’ye mean? SMITH. Well, Deakin, since Fiscal Lawson’s Nunkey Lawson, and it’s all in the family way, I don’t mind telling you that Nunkey Lawson’s a customer of George’s. We give Nunkey Lawson a good deal of brandy—G. S. and Co.’s celebrated Nantz. BRODIE. What! does he buy that smuggled trash of yours? SMITH. Well, we don’t call it smuggled in the trade, Deakin. It’s a wink, and King George’s picter between G. S. and the Nunks. BRODIE. Gad! that’s worth knowing. O Procurator, Procurator, is there no such thing as virtue? [_Allons_! It’s enough to cure a man of vice for this world and the other.] But hark you hither, Smith; this is all damned well in its way, but it don’t explain what brings you here. SMITH. I’ve trapped a pigeon for you.