Moore. Look here, Deacon! Wot’s up? Wot I ses is, if a cove’s got any thundering grudge agin a cove, why can’t he spit it out, I ses.
Brodie. Here are my answers. (Producing purse and dice.) These are both too light. This purse is empty, these dice are not loaded. Is it indiscretion to inquire how you share? Equal with the Captain, I presume?
Smith. It’s as easy as my eye, Deakin. Slink Ainslie got letting the merry glass go round, and didn’t know the right bones from the wrong. That’s hall.
Brodie. (What clumsy liars you are!
Smith. In boyhood’s hour, Deakin, he were called Old Truthful. Little did he think——)
Brodie. What is your errand?
Moore. Business.
Smith. After the melancholy games of last night, Deakin, which no one deplores so much as George Smith, we thought we’d trot round—didn’t us, Hump?—and see how you and your bankers was a-getting on.
Brodie. Will you tell me your errand?
Moore. You’re dry, ain’t you?