BRODIE. Thanks; I have all the vices, Captain. You must send me some of your rappee. It is passatively perfect. RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, I do myself the _h_anar of a sip to you. BRODIE. Topsy-turvy with the can! MOORE (_aside to SMITH_). That made him wink. BRODIE. Your high and mighty hand, my Captain! Shall we dice--dice--dice? (_Dumb-show between them._) AINSLIE (_aside to MOORE_). I'm sayin'----? MOORE. What's up now? AINSLIE. I'm no' to gie him the coggit dice? MOORE. The square ones, rot you! Ain't he got to lose every brass farden? AINSLIE. What'll like be my share? MOORE. You mucking well leave that to me. RIVERS. Well, Mr. Deakin, if you passatively will have me shake a _h_elbow---- BRODIE. Where are the bones, Ainslie? Where are the dice, Lord George? (_AINSLIE gives the dice and dice-box to BRODIE; and privately a second pair of dice._) Old Fortune's counters; the bonnie money-catching, money-breeding bones! Hark to their dry music! Scotland against England! Sit round, you tame devils, and put your coins on me! SMITH. Easy does it, my lord of high degree! Keep cool. BRODIE. Cool's the word, Captain--a cool twenty on the first? RIVERS. Done and done. (_They play._) HUNT (_aside to MOORE, a little drunk_). Ain't that 'ere Scots gentleman, your friend, too drunk to play, sir? MOORE. You hold your jaw; that's what's the matter with you. AINSLIE. He's waur nor he looks. He's knockit the box aff the table. SMITH (_picking up box_). That's the way _we_ does it. Ten to one and no takers! BRODIE. Deuces again! More liquor, Mother Clarke! SMITH. Hooray, our side! (_Pouring out._) George and his pal for ever! BRODIE. Deuces again, by heaven! Another? RIVERS. Done! BRODIE. Ten more; money's made to go. On with you! RIVERS. Sixes. BRODIE. Deuce-ace. Death and judgment! Double or quits? RIVERS. Drive on! Sixes. SMITH. Fire away, brave boys. (_To MOORE._) It's Tally-ho-the-Grinder, Hump! BRODIE. Treys! Death and the pit! How much have you got there? RIVERS. A cool forty-five. BRODIE. I play you thrice the lot. RIVERS. Who's afraid? SMITH. Stand by, Badger! RIVERS. Cinq-ace. BRODIE. My turn now. (_He juggles in and uses the second pair of dice._) Aces! Aces again! What's this? (_Picking up dice._) Sold!... You play false, you hound! RIVERS. You lie! BRODIE. In your teeth. (_Overturns table, and goes for him._) MOORE. Here, none o' that. (_They hold him back. Struggle._) SMITH. Hold on, Deacon! BRODIE. Let me go. Hands off, I say! I'll not touch him. (_Stands weighing dice in his hand._) But as for that thieving whinger, Ainslie, I'll cut his throat between this dark and to-morrow's. To the bone. (_Addressing the company._) Rogues, rogues, rogues! (_Singing without._) Ha! what's that? AINSLIE. It's the psalm-singing up by at the Holy Weaver's. And, O Deacon, if ye're a Christian man---- THE PSALM WITHOUT:--