The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson

TABLEAU II.
Hunt the Runner

The Scene represents the Procurator’s Office.

SCENE I

Lawson, Hunt

[Lawson (entering). Step your ways in, Officer. (At wing.) Mr. Carfrae, give a chair to yon decent wife that cam’ in wi’ me. Nae news?

A voice without. Naething, sir.

Lawson (sitting). Weel, Officer, and what can I do for you?]

Hunt. Well, sir, as I was saying, I’ve an English warrant for the apprehension of one Jemmy Rivers, alias Captain Starlight, now at large within your jurisdiction.

Lawson. That’ll be the highwayman?

Hunt. That same, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. The Captain’s given me a hard hunt of it this time. I dropped on his marks first at Huntingdon, but he was away North, and I had to up and after him. I heard of him all along the York road, for he’s a light hand on the pad, has Jemmy, and leaves his mark. [I missed him at York by four-and-twenty hours, and lost him for as much more. Then I picked him up again at Carlisle, and we made a race of it for the Border; but he’d a better nag, and was best up in the road; so I had to wait till I ran him to earth in Edinburgh here and could get a new warrant.] So here I am, sir. They told me you were an active sort of gentleman, and I’m an active man myself. And Sir John Fielding, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, he’s an active gentleman, likewise, though he’s blind as a himage, and he desired his compliments to you, [sir, and said that between us he thought we’d do the trick].

Lawson. Ay, he’ll be a fine man, Sir John. Hand me owre your papers, Hunt, and you’ll have your new warrant quam primum. And see here, Hunt, ye’ll aiblins have a while to yoursel’, and an active man, as ye say ye are, should aye be grinding grist. We’re sair forfeuchen wi’ our burglaries. Non constat de personâ. We canna get a grip o’ the delinquents. Here is the Hue and Cry. Ye see there is a guid two hundred pounds for ye.

Hunt. Well, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal [I ain’t a rich man, and two hundred’s two hundred. Thereby, sir], I don’t mind telling you I’ve had a bit of a worry at it already. You see, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I had to look into a ken to-night about the Captain, and an old cock always likes to be sure of his walk; so I got one of your Scotch officers – him as was so polite as to show me round to Mr. Brodie’s – to give me full particulars about the ’ouse, and the flash companions that use it. In his list I drop on the names of two old lambs of my own; and I put it to you, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, as a genleman as knows the world, if what’s a black sheep in London is likely or not to be keeping school in Edinburgh?

Lawson. Coelum non animum. A just observe.

Hunt. I’ll give it a thought, sir, and see if I can’t kill two birds with one stone. Talking of which, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I’d like to have a bit of a confab with that nice young woman as came to pay her rent.

Lawson. Hunt, that’s a very decent woman.

Hunt. And a very decent woman may have mighty queer pals, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. Lord love you, sir, I don’t know what the profession would do without ’em!

Lawson. Ye’re vera richt, Hunt. An active and a watchful officer. I’ll send her in till ye.

SCENE II

Hunt (solus)

Two hundred pounds reward. Curious thing. One burglary after another, and these Scotch 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 Dock, 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.

TABLEAU III.
Mother Clarke’s

SCENE I

The Stage represents a room of coarse and sordid appearance: settles, spittoons, etc.; sanded floor. A large table at back, where Ainslie, Hamilton, and others are playing cards and quarrelling. In front, L. and R. smaller tables, at one of which are Brodie and Moore, drinking. Mrs. Clarke and women serving.

Moore. You’ve got the devil’s own luck, Deacon, that’s what you’ve got.

Brodie. Luck! Don’t talk of luck to a man like me! Why not say I’ve the devil’s own judgment? Men of my stamp don’t risk – they plan, Badger; they plan, and leave chance to such cattle as you [and Jingling Geordie. They make opportunities before they take them].

Moore. You’re artful, ain’t you?

Brodie. Should I be here else? When I leave my house I leave an alibi behind me. I’m ill – ill with a jumping headache, and the fiend’s own temper. I’m sick in bed this minute, and they’re all going about with the fear of death on them lest they should disturb the poor sick Deacon. [My bedroom door is barred and bolted like the bank – you remember! – and all the while the window’s open, and the Deacon’s over the hills and far away. What do you think of me?]

Moore. I’ve seen your sort before, I have.

Brodie. Not you. As for Leslie’s —

Moore. That was a nick above you.

Brodie. Ay was it. He wellnigh took me red-handed; and that was better luck than I deserved. If I’d not been drunk, and in my tantrums, you’d never have got my hand within a thousand years of such a job.

Moore. Why not? You’re the King of the Cracksmen, ain’t you?

Brodie. Why not! He asks me why not! Gods, what a brain it is! Hark ye, Badger, it’s all very well to be King of the Cracksmen, as you call it; but however respectable he may have the misfortune to be, one’s friend is one’s friend, and as such must be severely let alone. What! shall there be no more honour among thieves than there is honesty among politicians? Why, man, if under heaven there were but one poor lock unpicked, and that the lock of one whose claret you’ve drunk, and who has babbled of woman across your own mahogany – that lock, sir, were entirely sacred. Sacred as the Kirk of Scotland; sacred as King George upon his throne; sacred as the memory of Bruce and Bannockburn.

Moore. Oh, rot! I ain’t a parson, I ain’t; I never had no college education. Business is business. That’s wot’s the matter with me.

Brodie. Ay, so we said when you lost that fight with Newcastle Jemmy, and sent us all home poor men. That was a nick above you.

Moore. Newcastle Jemmy! Muck: that’s my opinion of him: muck. I’ll mop the floor up with him any day, if so be as you or any on ’em ’ll make it worth my while. If not, muck! That’s my motto. Wot I now ses is, about that ’ere crib at Leslie’s, wos I right, I ses? or wos I wrong? That’s wot’s the matter with you.

Brodie. You are both right and wrong. You dared me to do it. I was drunk; I was upon my mettle; and I as good as did it. More than that, black-guardly as it was, I enjoyed the doing. He is my friend. He had dined with me that day, and I felt like a man in a story. I climbed his wall, I crawled along his pantry roof, I mounted his window-sill. That one turn of my wrist – you know it I – and the casement was open. It was as dark as the pit, and I thought I’d won my wager, when, phewt! down went something inside, and down went somebody with it. I made one leap, and was off like a rocket. It was my poor friend in person; and if he’d caught and passed me on to the watchman under the window, I should have felt no viler rogue than I feel just now.

Moore. I s’pose he knows you pretty well by this time?

Brodie. ’Tis the worst of friendship. Here, Kirsty, fill these glasses. Moore, here’s better luck – and a more honourable plant! – next time.

Moore. Deacon, I looks towards you. But it looks thundering like rotten eggs, don’t it?

Brodie. I think not. I was masked, for one thing, and for another I was as quick as lightning. He suspects me so little that he dined with me this very afternoon.

Moore. Anyway, you ain’t game to try it on again, I’ll lay odds on that. Once bit, twice shy. That’s your motto.

Brodie. Right again. I’ll put my alibi to a better use. And, Badger, one word in your ear: there’s no Newcastle Jemmy about me. Drop the subject, and for good, or I shall drop you. (He rises, and walks backwards and forwards, a little unsteadily. Then returns, and sits L., as before.)

SCENE II

To these, Hunt, disguised

He is disguised as a ‘flying stationer’ with a patch over his eye. He sits at table opposite Brodie’s and is served with bread and cheese and beer.

Hamilton (from behind). The deevil tak’ the cairts!

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 as 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 bottle.) Deacon, let’s see your gless.

Brodie. Not an inch of it.

Moore. No rotten shirking, Deacon!

[Ainslie. I’m sayin’, man, let’s see your gless.

Brodie. Go to the deuce!]

Ainslie. But I’m sayin’ —

Brodie. Haven’t I to play to-night?

Ainslie. But, man, ye’ll drink to bonnie Jean Watt?

Brodie. Ay, I’ll follow you there. A la reine de mes amours! (Drinks.) What fiend put this in your way, you hound? You’ve filled me with raw stuff. By the muckle deil! —

Moore. Don’t hit him, Deacon; tell his mother.

Hunt (aside). Oho!

SCENE III

To these, Smith, Rivers

Smith. Where’s my beloved? Deakin, my beauty, where are you? Come to the arms of George, and let him introduce you. Capting Starlight Rivers! Capting, the Deakin: Deakin, the Capting. An English nobleman on the grand tour, to open his mind, by the Lard!

Rivers. Stupendiously pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Deakin, split me!

[Brodie. We don’t often see England’s heroes our way, Captain, but when we do, we make them infernally welcome.

Rivers. Prettily put, sink me! A demned genteel sentiment, stap my vitals!]

Brodie. Oh Captain! you flatter me. [We Scotsmen have our qualities, I suppose, but we are but rough and ready at the best. There’s nothing like your Englishman for genuine distinction. He is nearer France than we are, and smells of his neighbourhood. That d – d thing, the je ne sais quoi, too! Lard, Lard, split me! stap my vitals! O such manners are pure, pure, pure. They are, by the shade of Claude Duval!]

Rivers. Mr. Deakin, Mr. Deakin [this is passatively too much]. What will you sip? Give it the hanar of a neam.

Brodie. By these most hanarable hands now, Captain, you shall not. On such an occasion I could play host with Lucifer himself. Here, Clarke, Mother Midnight! Down with you, Captain! (forcing him boisterously into a chair.) I don’t know if you can lie, but, sink me! you shall sit. (Drinking, etc., in dumb-show.)

Moore (aside to Smith). We’ve nobbled him, Geordie!

Smith (aside to Moore). As neat as ninepence! He’s taking it down like mother’s milk. But there’ll be wigs on the green to-morrow, Badger! It’ll be tuppence and toddle with George Smith.

Moore. O muck! Who’s afraid of him? (To Ainslie.) Hang on, Slinkie.

Hunt (who is feigning drunkenness, and has overheard; aside). By jingo!

[Rivers. Will you sneeze, Mr. Deakin, sir?

Brodie. Thanks; I have all the vices, Captain. You must send me some of your rappee. It is passatively perfect.]

Rivers. Mr. Deakin, I do myself the hanar of a sip to you.

Brodie. Topsy-turvy with the can!

Moore (aside to Smith). That made him wink.

Brodie. Your high and mighty hand, my Captain! Shall we dice – dice – dice? (Dumb-show between them.)

Ainslie (aside to Moore). I’m sayin’ – ?

Moore. What’s up now?

Ainslie. I’m no to gie him the coggit dice?

Moore. The square ones, rot you! Ain’t he got to lose every brass farden?

Ainslie. What’ll like be my share?

Moore. You mucking well leave that to me.

Rivers. Well, Mr. Deakin, if you passatively will have me shake a helbow —

Brodie. Where are the bones, Ainslie? Where are the dice, Lord George? (Ainslie gives the dice and dice-box to Brodie; and privately a second pair of dice.) Old Fortune’s counters the bonnie money-catching, money-breeding bones! Hark to their dry music! Scotland against England! Sit round, you tame devils, and put your coins on me!

Smith. Easy does it, my lord of high degree! Keep cool.

Brodie. Cool’s the word, Captain – a cool twenty on the first?

Rivers. Done and done. (They play.)

Hunt (aside to Moore, a little drunk). Ain’t that ’ere Scotch gentleman, your friend, too drunk to play, sir?

Moore. You hold your jaw; that’s what’s the matter with you.

Ainslie. He’s waur nor he looks. He’s knockit the box aff the table.

Smith (picking up box). That’s the way we does it. Ten to one and no takers!

Brodie. Deuces again! More liquor, Mother Clarke!

Smith. Hooray our side! (Pouting out.) George and his pal for ever!

Brodie. Deuces again, by heaven! Another?

Rivers. Done!

Brodie. Ten more; money’s made to go. On with you!

Rivers. Sixes.

Brodie. Deuce-ace. Death and judgment? Double or quits?

Rivers. Drive on! Sixes.

Smith. Fire away, brave boys! (To Moore) It’s Tally-ho-the-Grinder, Hump!

Brodie. Treys! Death and the pit! How much have you got there?

Rivers. A cool forty-five.

Brodie. I play you thrice the lot.

Rivers. Who’s afraid?

Smith. Stand by, Badger!

Rivers. Cinq-ace.

Brodie. My turn now. (He juggles in and uses the second pair of dice.) Aces! Aces again! What’s this? (Picking up dice.) Sold!.. You play false, you hound!

Rivers. You lie!

Brodie. In your teeth. (Overturns table, and goes for him.)

Moore. Here, none o’ that. (They hold him back. Struggle.)

Smith. Hold on, Deacon!

Brodie. Let me go. Hands off, I say! I’ll not touch him. (Stands weighing dice in his hand.) But as for that thieving whinger, Ainslie, I’ll cut his throat between this dark and to-morrow’s. To the bone. (Addressing the company.) Rogues, rogues, rogues! (Singing without.) Ha! what’s that?

Ainslie. It’s the psalm-singing up by at the Holy Weaver’s. And O Deacon, if ye’re a Christian man —

The Psalm Without: —

 
‘Lord, who shall stand, if Thou, O Lord,
Should’st mark iniquity?
But yet with Thee forgiveness is,
That feared Thou may’st be.’
 

Brodie. I think I’ll go. ‘My son the Deacon was aye regular at kirk.’ If the old man could see his son, the Deacon! I think I’ll – Ay, who shall stand? There’s the rub! And forgiveness, too? There’s a long word for you! I learnt it all lang syne, and now.. hell and ruin are on either hand of me, and the devil has me by the leg. ‘My son, the Deacon.. !’ Eh, God! but there’s no fool like an old fool! (Becoming conscious of the others.) Rogues!

Smith. Take my arm, Deacon.

Brodie. Down, dog, down! [Stay and be drunk with your equals.] Gentlemen and ladies, I have already cursed you pretty heavily. Let me do myself the pleasure of wishing you – a very – good evening. (As he goes out, Hunt, who has been staggering about in the crowd, falls on a settle, as about to sleep.)

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