Lawson. Onyway, Deacon, ye’d put your ill-gotten gains to a right use; they might come by the wind, but they wouldna gang wi’ the water; and that’s aye a solatium, as we say. If I am to be robbit, I would like to be robbit wi’ decent folk; and no’ think o’ my bonnie clean siller dirling among jads and dicers. ’Faith, William, the mair I think on’t, the mair I’m o’ Mr. Leslie’s mind. Come the night, or come the morn, and I’se gie ye my free permission, and lend ye a hand in at the window forbye!
Brodie. Come, come, Procurator, lead not our poor clay into temptation. (Leslie and Mary talk apart.)
Lawson. I’m no muckle afraid for your puir clay, as ye ca’t. But hark i’ your ear: ye’re likely, joking apart, to be gey and sune in partnership wi’ Mr. Leslie. He and Mary are gey and pack, a’body can see that.
Brodie. “Daffin, and want o’ wit”—you know the rest.
Lawson. Vidi, scivi, et audivi, as we say in a Sasine, William.) Man, because my wig’s pouthered do you think I havena a green heart? I was aince a lad mysel’, and I ken fine by the glint o’ the e’e when a lad’s fain and a lassie’s willing. And, man, it’s the town’s talk; communis error fit jus, ye ken.
Old Brodie. Oh!
Lawson. See, ye’re hurting your faither’s hand.
Brodie. Dear dad, it is not good to have an ill-tempered son.
Lawson. What the deevil ails ye at the match? ’Od man, he has a nice bit divot o’ Fife corn-land, I can tell ye, and some Bordeaux wine in his cellar! But I needna speak o’ the Bordeaux; ye’ll ken the smack o’t as weel’s I do mysel’; onyway it’s grand wine. Tantum et tale. I tell ye the pro’s, find you the con.’s, if ye’re able.
Brodie. (I am sorry, Procurator, but I must be short with you.) You are talking in the air, as lawyers will. I prefer to drop the subject (and it will displease me if you return to it in my hearing).