Ainslie. Dinna cangle, Geordie. My back’s fair broke.
Moore. O, muck! Hand out them pieces.
Smith. All right, Humptious! (To Ainslie.) You’re a nice old sort for a rag-and-bone man: can’t hold a bag open! (Taking out tools.) Here they was. Here are the bunchums, one and two; and jolly old keys was they. Here’s the picklocks, crowbars, and here’s Lord George’s pet bull’s-eye, his old and valued friend, the Cracksman’s Treasure!
Moore. Just like you. Forgot the rotten centre-bit.
Smith. That’s all you know. Here she is, bless her! Portrait of George as a gay hironmonger.
Moore. O, rot! Hand it over, and keep yourself out of that there thundering moonlight.
Smith (lighting lantern). All right, old mumble-peg. Don’t you get carried away by the fire of old Rome. That’s your motto. Here are the tools, a perfect picter of the sublime and beautiful; and all I hope is that our friend and pitcher, the Deakin, will make a better job of it than he did last night. If he don’t, I shall retire from the business—that’s all; and it’ll be George and his little wife and a black footman till death do us part.
Moore. O, muck! You’re all jaw like a sheep’s jimmy. That’s my opinion of you. When did you see him last?
Smith. This morning; and he looked as if he was rehearsing for his own epitaph. I never see such a change in a man. I gave him the office for to-night; and was he grateful? Did he weep upon my faithful bosom? No; he smiled upon me like a portrait of the dear departed. I see his ’art was far away; and it broke my own to look at him.