MOORE (_appearing in the door_). Do you want us all to get thundering well scragged? BRODIE (_going_). There is my master. END OF THE THIRD ACT ACT IV TABLEAU VII THE ROBBERY _The Stage represents the outside of the Excise Office in Chessel's Court. At the back, L.C., an archway opening on the High Street. The door of the Excise in wing, R.; the opposite side of the stage is lumbered with barrels, packing-cases, etc. Moonlight; the Excise Office casts a shadow over half the stage. A clock strikes the hour. A round of the City Guard, with halberts, lanterns, etc., enters and goes out again by the arch, after having examined the fastenings of the great door and the lumber on the left. Cry without in the High Court: "_Ten by the bell and a fine clear night._" Then enter cautiously by the arch, SMITH and MOORE, with AINSLIE loaded with tools_ SCENE I SMITH, MOORE, AINSLIE SMITH (_entering first_). Come on, coast clear. MOORE (_after they have come to the front_). Ain't he turned up yet? SMITH (_to AINSLIE_). Now, Maggot! The fishing's a-going to begin. AINSLIE. Dinna cangle, Geordie. My back's fair broke. MOORE. O, muck! Hand out them pieces. SMITH. All right, Humptious! (_To AINSLIE._) You're a nice old sort for a rag-and-bone man: can't hold a bag open! (_Taking out tools._) Here they was. Here are the bunchums, one and two; and jolly old keys was they. Here's the picklocks, crowbars, and here's Lord George's pet bull's-eye, his old and valued friend, the Cracksman's Treasure! MOORE. Just like you. Forgot the rotten centre-bit. SMITH. That's all you know. Here she is, bless her! Portrait of George as a gay _h_ironmonger. MOORE. O, rot! Hand it over, and keep yourself out of that there thundering moonlight. SMITH (_lighting lantern_). All right, old mumble-peg. Don't you get carried away by the fire of old Rome. That's your motto. Here are the tools, a perfect picter of the sublime and beautiful; and all I hope is that our friend and pitcher, the Deakin, will make a better job of it than he did last night. If he don't, I shall retire from the business--that's all; and it'll be George and his little wife and a black footman till death do us part. MOORE. O, muck! You're all jaw like a sheep's jimmy. That's my opinion of you. When did you see him last? SMITH. This morning; and he looked as if he was rehearsing for his own epitaph. I never see such a change in a man. I gave him the office for to-night; and was he grateful? Did he weep upon my faithful bosom? No; he smiled upon me like a portrait of the dear departed. I see his 'art was far away; and it broke my own to look at him. MOORE. Muck! Wot I ses is, if a cove's got that much of the nob about him, wot's the good of his working single-handed? That's wot's the matter with him. SMITH. Well, old Father Christmas, he ain't single-handed to-night, is he? MOORE. No, he ain't; he's got a man with him to-night.