Part 4 (1/2)

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 (_unm.u.f.fling_). I've naething to be ashamed of. My name's Mistress Watt; I'm weel kennt at the Wynd heid; 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.]

GEORGE (_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, m.u.f.fler, 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.

BRODIE (_aside to_ JEAN, _as she pa.s.ses with a curtsey_). How dare you be here? (_Aloud to_ SMITH.) Wait you here, my man.

SMITH. If you please, sir. (BRODIE _goes out_, _C._)

SCENE VII

BRODIE, SMITH.

BRODIE. What the devil brings you here?

SMITH. _Con_found it, Deakin! Not rusty?

[BRODIE. And not you only: Jean too! Are you mad?

SMITH. Why, you don't mean to say, Deakin, that you have been stodged by G. Smith, Esquire? Plummy old George?]

BRODIE. There was my uncle the Procurator-

SMITH. The Fiscal? He don't count.

BRODIE. What d'ye mean?

SMITH. Well, Deakin, since Fiscal Lawson's Nunkey Lawson, and it's all in the family way, I don't mind telling you that Nunkey Lawson's a customer of George's. We give Nunkey Lawson a good deal of brandy-G. S.

and Co.'s celebrated Nantz.