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?

BRODIE. What do I mean? I mean that you and that merry-andrew shall walk
out of this room and this house. Do you suppose, you blockheads, that I
am blind? I'm the Deacon, am I not? I've been your king and your
commander. I've led you and fed you and thought for you with this head.
And you think to steal a march upon a man like me? I see you through and
through (I know you like the clock); I read your thoughts like print.
Brodie, you thought, has money, and won't do the job. Therefore, you
thought, we must rook him to the heart. And therefore, you put up your
idiot cockney. And now you come round, and dictate, and think sure of
your Excise? Sure? Are you sure I'll let you pack with a whole skin? By
my soul, but I've a mind to pistol you like dogs. Out of this! Out, I
say, and soil my home no more.

MOORE (_sitting_). Now look 'ere. Mr. bloody Deacon Brodie, you see this
'ere chair of yours, don't you? Wot I ses to you is, Here I am, I ses,
and here I mean to stick. That's my motto. Who the devil are you to do
the high and mighty? You make all you can out of us, don't you? and
when one of your plants goes cross, you order us out of the ken? Muck!
That's wot I think of you. Muck! Don't you get coming the nob over me,
Mr. Deacon Brodie, or I'll smash you.

BRODIE. You will?

MOORE. Ay will I. If I thundering well swing for it. And as for clearing