SMITH. What brings the man from stuff like this to rotgut and spittoons at Mother Clarke's? But ah, George, you was born for a higher spear! And so was you, Mrs. Watt, though I say it that shouldn't. (_Seeing OLD BRODIE for the first time._) Hullo! it's a man! JEAN. Thonder in the chair. (_They go to look at him, their backs to the door._) SMITH. Is he alive? JEAN. I think there's something wrong with him. SMITH. And how was you to-morrow, my valued old gentleman, eh? JEAN. Dinna mak' a mock o' him, Geordie. OLD BRODIE. My son--the Deacon--Deacon of his trade. JEAN. He'll be his feyther. (_HUNT appears at door C., and stands looking on._) SMITH. The Deacon's old man! Well, he couldn't expect to have his quiver full of sich, could he, Jean? (_To OLD BRODIE._) Ah, my Christian soldier, if you had, the world would have been more variegated. Mrs. Deakin (_to JEAN_), let me introduce you to your dear papa. JEAN. Think shame to yoursel'! This is the Deacon's house; you and me shouldna be here by rights; and if we are, it's the least we can do to behave dacent. (This is no' the way ye'll mak' me like ye.) SMITH. All right, Duchess. Don't be angry. SCENE V _To these, HUNT, C._ (_He steals down, and claps each one suddenly on the shoulder._) HUNT. Is there a gentleman here by the name of Mr. Procurator-Fiscal? 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 gentleman? 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 Wyndheid; 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.) SMITH (_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.