t?

SMITH (_to AINSLIE_). Now, Maggot! The fishing's a-going to begin.

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 _h_ironmonger.

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.

MOORE. Muck! Wot I ses is, if a cove's got that much of the nob about
him, wot's the good of his working single-handed? That's wot's the
matter with him.

SMITH. Well, old Father Christmas, he ain't single-handed to-night, is
he?

MOORE. No, he ain't; he's got a man with him to-night.

SMITH. Pardon me, Romeo: two men, I think?

MOORE. A man wot means business. If I'd 'a' bin with him last night, it
ain't psalm-singin' would have got us off. Psalm-singin'? Muck! Let 'em
try it on with me.

AINSLIE. Losh me, I heard a noise. (_Alarm; they crouch into the shadow
and listen._)

SMITH. All serene. (_To AINSLIE._) Am I to cut that liver out of you?
Now, am I? (_A whistle._) 'St! here we are. (_Whistles a modulation,
which is answered._)

SCENE II

_To these, BRODIE_

MOORE. Waiting for