Moore. No rotten shirking, Deacon!
[Ainslie. I’m sayin’, man, let’s see your gless.
Brodie. Go to the deuce!]
Ainslie. But I’m sayin’—
Brodie. Haven’t I to play to-night?
Ainslie. But, man, ye’ll drink to bonnie Jean Watt?
Brodie. Ay, I’ll follow you there. A la reine de mes amours! (Drinks.) What fiend put this in your way, you hound? You’ve filled me with raw stuff. By the muckle deil!—
Moore. Don’t hit him, Deacon; tell his mother.
Hunt (aside). Oho!