BRODIE, HUNT
HUNT (_hat in hand_). Mr. Deacon Brodie, I believe?
BRODIE. I am he, Mr.—
HUNT. Hunt, sir; an officer from Sir John Fielding of Bow Street.
BRODIE. There can be no better passport than the name. In what can I
serve you?
HUNT. You’ll excuse me, Mr. Deacon.
BRODIE. Your duty excuses you, Mr. Hunt.
HUNT. Your obedient. The fact is, Mr. Deacon [we in the office see a
good deal of the lives of private parties; and I needn’t tell a gentleman
of your experience it’s part of our duty to hold our tongues. Now], it’s
come to my knowledge that you are a trifle jokieous. Of course I know
there ain’t any harm in that. I’ve been young myself, Mr. Deacon, and
speaking—
BRODIE. O, but pardon me. Mr. Hunt, I am not going to discuss my
private character with you.
HUNT. To be sure you ain’t. [And do I blame you? Not me.] But,
speaking as one man of the world to another, you naturally see a great
deal of bad company.
BRODIE. Not half so much as you do. But I see what you’re driving at;
and if I can illuminate the course of justice, you may command me. (_He
sits_, _and motions_ HUNT _to do likewise_.)
HUNT. I was dead sure of it; and ’and upon ’art, Mr. Deacon, I thank
you. Now (_consulting pocket-book_), did you ever meet a certain George
Smith?
BRODIE. The fellow they call Jingling Geordie? (HUNT _nods_.) Yes.
HUNT. Bad character.
BRODIE. Let us say . . . disreputable.
HUNT. Any means of livelihood?
BRODIE. I really cannot pretend to guess, I have met the creature at
cock-fights [which, as you know, are my weakness]. Perhaps he bets.
HUNT. [Mr. Deacon, from what I know of the gentleman, I should say that
if he don’t—if he ain’t open to any mortal thing—he ain’t the man I
mean.] He used to be about with a man called Badger Moore.
BRODIE. The boxer?
HUNT. That’s him. Know anything of him?
BRODIE. Not much. I lost five pieces on him in a fight; and I fear he
sold his backers.
HUNT. Speaking as one admirer of the noble art to another, Mr. Deacon,
the losers always do. I suppose the Badger cockfights like the rest of
us?
BRODIE. I have met him in the pit.
HUNT. Well, it’s a pretty sport. I’m as partial to a main as anybody.
BRODIE. It’s not an elegant taste, Mr. Hunt.
HUNT. It costs as much as though it was. And that reminds me, speaking
as one sportsman to another, Mr. Deacon, I was sorry to hear that you’ve
been dropping a hatful of money lately.
BRODIE. You are very good.
HUNT. Four hundred in three months, they tell me.
BRODIE. Ah!
HUNT. So they say, sir.
BRODIE. They have a perfect right to say so, Mr. Hunt.
HUNT. And you to do the other thing? Well, I’m a good hand at keeping
close myself.
BRODIE. I am not consulting you, Mr. Hunt; ’tis you who are consulting
me. And if there is nothing else (_rising_) in which I can pretend to
serve you . . . ?
HUNT (_rising_). That’s about all, sir, unless you can put me on to
anything good in the way of heckle and spur? I’d try to look in.
BRODIE. O, come, Mr. Hunt, if you have nothing to do, frankly and flatly
I have. This is not the day for such a conversation; and so good-bye to
you. (_A knocking_, _C._)
HUNT. Servant, Mr. Deacon. (SMITH _and_ MOORE, _without waiting to be
answered_, _open and enter_, _C._ _They are well into the room before
they observe_ HUNT.) [Talk of the Devil, sir!]
BRODIE. What brings you here? (SMITH _and_ MOORE, _confounded by the
officer’s presence_, _slouch together to right of door_. HUNT, _stopping
as he goes out_, _contemplates the pair_, _sarcastically_. _This is
supported by_ MOORE _with sullen bravado_; _by_ SMITH, _with cringing
airiness_.)
HUNT (_digging_ SMITH _in the ribs_). Why, you are the very parties I
was looking for! (_He goes out_, _C._)