Jean. Dinna mak’ a mock o’ him, Geordie.
Old Brodie. My son—the Deacon—Deacon of his trade.
Jean. He’ll be his feyther. (Hunt appears at door C., and stands looking on.)
Smith. The Deacon’s old man! Well, he couldn’t expect to have his quiver full of sich, could he, Jean? (To Old Brodie.) Ah, my Christian soldier, if you had, the world would have been more variegated. Mrs. Deakin (to Jean), let me introduce you to your dear papa.
Jean. Think shame to yoursel’! This is the Deacon’s house; you and me shouldna be here by rights; and if we are, it’s the least we can do to behave dacent. (This is no’ the way ye’ll mak’ me like ye.)
Smith. All right, Duchess. Don’t be angry.
SCENE V
To these, Hunt, C. (He steals down, and claps each one suddenly on the shoulder.)
Hunt. Is there a gentleman here by the name of Mr. Procurator-Fiscal?
Smith (pulling himself together). D—n it, Jerry, what do you mean by startling an old customer like that?