Hunt. More of the Deacon’s work, I guess? Does him credit too, don’t it, Badger?
Moore. Muck. Was that the thundering cove that peached?
Hunt. That was the thundering cove.
Moore. And is he corpsed?
Hunt. I should just about reckon he was.
Moore. Then, damme, I don’t mind swinging!
Hunt. We’ll talk about that presently. M’Intyre and Stewart, you get a stretcher, and take that rubbish to the office. Pick it up; it’s only a dead informer. Hand these two gentlemen over to Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, with Mr. Jerry Hunt’s compliments. Johnstone and Syme, you come along with me. I’ll bring the Deacon round myself.
Act-Drop