Brodie. What! does he buy that smuggled trash of yours?
Smith. Well, we don’t call it smuggled in the trade, Deakin. It’s a wink and King George’s picter between G. S. and the Nunks.
Brodie. Gad! that’s worth knowing. O Procurator, Procurator, is there no such thing as virtue? (Allons! It’s enough to cure a man of vice for this world and the other.) But hark you hither, Smith; this is all damned well in its way, but it don’t explain what brings you here.
Smith. I’ve trapped a pigeon for you.
Brodie. Can’t you pluck him yourself?
Smith. Not me. He’s too flash in the feather for a simple nobleman like George Lord Smith. It’s the great Capting Starlight, fresh in from York. (He’s exercised his noble art all the way from here to London. “Stand and deliver, stap my vitals!”) And the North Road is no bad lay, Deakin.
Brodie. Flush?
Smith (mimicking). “Three graziers, split me! A mail, stap my vitals! and seven demned farmers, by the Lard——”
Brodie. By Gad!