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.

BRODIE. Is it possible? All my life long have I been pining to meet with
a patter-cove from Seven Dials! Embrace me, at a distance. (A
patter-cove from Seven Dials!) Go, fill yourself as drunk as you dare,
at my expense. Anything he likes, Mrs. Clarke. He's a patter-cove from
Seven Dials. Hillo! what's all this?

AINSLIE. Dod, I'm for nae mair! (_At back, and rising._)

PLAYERS. Sit down, Ainslie.--Sit down, Andra.--Ma revenge!

AINSLIE. Na, na, I'm for canny goin'. (_Coming forward with