Brodie. I am he, Mr.—
Hunt. Hunt, sir; an officer from Sir John Fielding of Bow Street.
Brodie. There can be no better passport than the name. In what can I serve you?
Hunt. You’ll excuse me, Mr. Deacon.
Brodie. Your duty excuses you, Mr. Hunt.
Hunt. Your obedient. The fact is, Mr. Deacon [we in the office see a good deal of the lives of private parties; and I needn’t tell a gentleman of your experience it’s part of our duty to hold our tongues. Now], it’s come to my knowledge that you are a trifle jokieous. Of course I know there ain’t any harm in that. I’ve been young myself, Mr. Deacon, and speaking—
Brodie. O, but pardon me. Mr. Hunt, I am not going to discuss my private character with you.
Hunt. To be sure you ain’t. [And do I blame you? Not me.] But, speaking as one man of the world to another, you naturally see a great deal of bad company.
Brodie. Not half so much as you do. But I see what you’re driving at; and if I can illuminate the course of justice, you may command me. (He sits, and motions Hunt to do likewise.)
Hunt. I was dead sure of it; and ’and upon ’art, Mr. Deacon, I thank you. Now (consulting pocket-book), did you ever meet a certain George Smith?