Hunt (solus). Two hundred pounds reward. Curious thing. One burglary after another, and these Scots blockheads without a man to show for it. Jock runs east, and Sawney cuts west; everything’s at a deadlock and they go on calling themselves thief-catchers! (By Jingo, I’ll show them how we do it down South! Well, I’ve worn out a good deal of saddle-leather over Jemmy Rivers; but here’s for new breeches if you like.) Let’s have another queer at the list. (Reads.) “Humphrey Moore, otherwise Badger; aged forty, thick-set, dark, close-cropped; has been a prize-fighter; no apparent occupation.” Badger’s an old friend of mine. “George Smith, otherwise the Dook, otherwise Jingling Geordie; red-haired and curly, slight, flash; an old thimble-rig; has been a stroller; suspected of smuggling; an associate of loose women.” G. S., Esquire, is another of my flock. “Andrew Ainslie, otherwise Slink Ainslie; aged thirty-five; thin, white-faced, lank-haired; no occupation; has been in trouble for reset of theft and subornation of youth; might be useful as King’s evidence.” That’s an acquaintance to make. “Jock Hamilton otherwise Sweepie,” and so on. (“Willie M’Glashan,” hum – yes, and so on, and so on.) Ha! here’s the man I want. “William Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights, about thirty; tall, slim, dark; wears his own hair; is often at Clarke’s, but seemingly for purposes of amusement only; (is nephew to the Procurator-Fiscal; is commercially sound, but has of late (it is supposed) been short of cash; has lost much at cock-fighting;) is proud, clever, of good repute, but is fond of adventures and secrecy, and keeps low company.” Now, here’s what I ask myself: here’s this list of the family party that drop into Mother Clarke’s; it’s been in the hands of these nincompoops for weeks, and I’m the first to cry Queer Street! Two well-known cracksmen, Badger and the Dook! why, there’s Jack in the Orchard at once. This here topsawyer work they talk about, of course that’s a chalk above Badger and the Dook. But how about our Mohock-tradesman? “Purposes of amusement!” What next? Deacon of the Wrights? and Wright in their damned lingo means a kind of carpenter, I fancy? Why, damme, it’s the man’s trade! I’ll look you up, Mr. William Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights. As sure as my name’s Jerry Hunt, I wouldn’t take one-ninety-nine in gold for my chance of that ’ere two hundred!

SCENE III

Hunt; to him, Jean

Hunt. Well, my dear, and how about your gentleman friend now? How about Deacon Brodie?

Jean. I dinna ken your name, sir, nor yet whae ye are; but this is a very poor employ for ony gentleman – it sets ill wi’ ony gentleman to cast my shame in my teeth.

Hunt. Lord love you, my dear, that ain’t my line of country. Suppose you’re not married and churched a hundred thousand times, what odds to Jerry Hunt? Jerry, my Pamela Prue, is a cove as might be your parent; a cove renowned for the ladies’ friend (and he’s dead certain to be on your side). What I can’t get over is this: here’s this Mr. Deacon Brodie doing the genteel at home, and leaving a nice young ’oman like you – as a cove may say – to take it out on cold potatoes. That’s what I can’t get over, Mrs. Watt. I’m a family man myself; and I can’t get over it.

Jean. And whae said that to ye? They lee’d whatever. I get naething but guid by him; and I had nae richt to gang to his house; and O, I just ken I’ve been the ruin of him!

Hunt. Don’t you take on, Mrs. Watt. Why, now I hear you piping up for him, I begin to think a lot of him myself. I like a cove to be open-handed and free.

Jean. Weel, sir, and he’s a’ that.

Hunt. Well, that shows what a wicked world this is. Why, they told me – . Well, well, “here’s the open ’and and the ’appy ’art.” And how much, my dear – speaking as a family man – now, how much might your gentleman friend stand you in the course of a year?

Jean. What’s your wull?

Hunt. That’s a mighty fancy shawl, Mrs. Watt. (I should like to take its next-door neighbour to Mrs. Hunt in King Street, Common Garden.) What’s about the figure?

Jean. It’s paid for. Ye can sweir to that.

Hunt. Yes, my dear, and so is King George’s crown; but I don’t know what it cost, and I don’t know where the blunt came from to pay for it.

Jean. I’m thinking ye’ll be a vera clever gentleman.

Hunt. So I am, my dear; and I like you none the worse for being artful yourself. But between friends now, and speaking as a family man —

Jean. I’ll be wishin’ ye a fine nicht. (Curtsies and goes out.)

SCENE IV

Hunt (solus)

Hunt. Ah! that’s it, is it? “My fancy man’s my ’ole delight,” as we say in Bow Street. But which is the fancy man? George the Dook, or William the Deacon? One or both? (He winks solemnly.) Well, Jerry, my boy, here’s your work cut out for you; but if you took one-nine-five for that ere little two hundred you’d be a disgrace to the profession.

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