HUNT (_rising_). That's about all, sir, unless you can put me on to anything good in the way of heckle and spur? I'd try to look in. BRODIE. O come, Mr. Hunt, if you have nothing to do, frankly and flatly I have. This is not the day for such a conversation; and so good-bye to you. (_A knocking, C._) HUNT. Servant, Mr. Deacon. (_SMITH and MOORE, without waiting to be answered, open and enter, C. They are well into the room before they observe HUNT._) (Talk of the devil, sir!) BRODIE. What brings you here? (_SMITH and MOORE, confounded by the officer's presence, slouch together to right of door. HUNT, stopping as he goes out, contemplates the pair, sarcastically. This is supported by MOORE with sullen bravado; by SMITH with cringing airiness._) HUNT (_digging SMITH in the ribs_). Why, you are the very parties I was looking for! (_He goes out, C._) SCENE VIII BRODIE, MOORE, SMITH MOORE. Wot was that cove here about? BRODIE (_with folded arms, half-sitting on bench_). He was here about you. SMITH (_still quite discountenanced_). About us? Scissors! And what did you tell him? BRODIE (_same attitude_). I spoke of you as I have found you. (I told him you were a disreputable hound, and that Moore had crossed a fight.) I told him you were a drunken ass, and Moore an incompetent and dishonest boxer. MOORE. Look here, Deacon! Wot's up? Wot I ses is, if a cove's got any thundering grudge agin a cove, why can't he spit it out, I ses. BRODIE. Here are my answers. (_Producing purse and dice._) These are both too light. This purse is empty, these dice are not loaded. Is it indiscretion to inquire how you share? Equal with the Captain, I presume? SMITH. It's as easy as my eye, Deakin. Slink Ainslie got letting the merry glass go round, and didn't know the right bones from the wrong. That's _h_all. BRODIE. (What clumsy liars you are! SMITH. In boyhood's hour, Deakin, he were called Old Truthful. Little did he think----) BRODIE. What is your errand? MOORE. Business. SMITH. After the melancholy games of last night, Deakin, which no one deplores so much as George Smith, we thought we'd trot round--didn't us, Hump?--and see how you and your bankers was a-getting on. BRODIE. Will you tell me your errand? MOORE. You're dry, ain't you? BRODIE. Am I? MOORE. We ain't none of us got a stiver, that's wot's the matter with us. BRODIE. Is it? MOORE. Ay, strike me, it is! And wot we've got to do is to put up the Excise. SMITH. It's the last plant in the shrubbery, Deakin, and it's breaking George the gardener's heart, it is. We really must! BRODIE. Must we? MOORE. Must's the thundering word. I mean business, I do. BRODIE. That's lucky. I don't. MOORE. O, you don't, don't you? BRODIE. I do not. MOORE. Then p'raps you'll tell us wot you thundering well do?