BRODIE. 'Tis the worst of friendship. Here, Kirsty, fill these glasses. Moore, here's better luck--and a more honourable plant!--next time. MOORE. Deacon, I looks towards you. But it looks thundering like rotten eggs, don't it? BRODIE. I think not. I was masked, for one thing, and for another I was as quick as lightning. He suspects me so little that he dined with me this very afternoon. MOORE. Anyway, you ain't game to try it on again, I'll lay odds on that. Once bit, twice shy. That's your motto. BRODIE. Right again. I'll put my _alibi_ to a better use. And, Badger, one word in your ear: there's no Newcastle Jemmy about _me_. Drop the subject, and for good, or I shall drop you. (_He rises, and walks backwards and forwards, a little unsteadily; then returns, and sits, L., as before._) SCENE II _To these, HUNT, disguised_ _He is disguised as a "flying stationer" with a patch over his eye. He sits at table opposite BRODIE'S, and is served with bread and cheese and beer._ HAMILTON (_from behind_). The deevil tak' the cairts! AINSLIE. Hoot, man, dinna blame the cairts. MOORE. Look here, Deacon, I mean business, I do. (_HUNT looks up at the name of "Deacon."_) BRODIE. Gad, Badger, I never meet you that you do not. (You have a set of the most commercial intentions!) You make me blush. MOORE. That's all blazing fine, that is! But wot I ses is, wot about the chips? That's what I ses. I'm after that thundering old Excise Office, I am. That's my motto. BRODIE. 'Tis a very good motto, and at your lips, Badger, it kind of warms my heart. But it's not mine. MOORE. Muck! why not? BRODIE. 'Tis too big and too dangerous. I shirk King George; he has a fat pocket, but he has a long arm. (You pilfer sixpence from him, and it's three hundred reward for you, and a hue and cry from Tophet to the stars.) It ceases to be business; it turns politics, and I'm not a politician, Mr. Moore. (_Rising._) I'm only Deacon Brodie. MOORE. All right. I can wait. BRODIE (_seeing HUNT_). Ha, a new face--and with a patch! (There's nothing under heaven I like so dearly as a new face with a patch.) Who the devil, sir, are you that own it? And where did you get it? And how much will you take for it second-hand? HUNT. Well, sir, to tell you the truth--(_BRODIE bows_)--it's not for sale. But it's my own, and I'll drink your honour's health in anything. BRODIE. An Englishman, too! Badger, behold a countryman. What are you, and what part of southern Scotland do you come from? HUNT. Well, your honour, to tell you the honest truth---- BRODIE (_bowing_). Your obleeged! HUNT. I knows a gentleman when I sees him, your honour (and, to tell your honour the truth---- BRODIE. _Je vous baise les mains!_ [_Bowing._]) HUNT. A gentleman is a gentleman, your honour (is always a gentleman, and to tell you the honest truth)-- BRODIE. Great heavens! answer in three words, and be hanged to you! What are you, and where are you from? HUNT. A patter-cove from Seven Dials.