you, Deacon.

BRODIE. I see. Everything ready?

SMITH. All a-growing and a-blowing.

BRODIE. Give me the light. (_Briefly examines tools and door with
bull's-eye._) You, George, stand by, and hand up the pieces. Ainslie,
take the glim. Moore, out and watch.

MOORE. I didn't come here to do sentry-go, I didn't.

BRODIE. You came here to do as I tell you. (_MOORE goes up slowly._)
Second bunch, George. I know the lock. Steady with the glim. (_At
work._) No good. Give me the centre-bit.

SMITH. Right. (_Work continues. AINSLIE drops lantern._)

BRODIE. Curse you! (_Throttling and kicking him._) You shake, and you
shake, and you can't even hold a light for your betters. Hey?

AINSLIE. Eh, Deacon, Deacon....

SMITH. Now, Ghost! (_With lantern._)

BRODIE. 'St, Moore!

MOORE. Wot's the row?

BRODIE. Take you the light.

MOORE (_to AINSLIE_). Wo' j' yer shakin' at? (_Kicks him._)

BRODIE (_to AINSLIE_). Go you, and see if you're good at keeping watch.
Inside the arch. And if you let a footfall past, I'll break your back.
(_AINSLIE retires._) Steady with the light. (_At work with centre-bit._)
Hand up number four, George. (_At work with picklock._) That has it.

SMITH. Well done, our side.

BRODIE. Now the crowbar! (_At work._) That's it. Put down the glim,
Badger, and help at the wrench. Your whole weight, men! Put your backs
to it! (_While they work at the bar, BRODIE stands by, dusting his hands
with a pocket-handkerchief. As the door opens._) _Voila!_ In with you.

MOORE (_entering with light_). Mucking fine work too, Deacon!

BRODIE. Take up the irons, George.

SMITH. How about the P(h)antom?

BRODIE. Leave him to me. I'll give him a look. (_Enters office._)

SMITH (_following_). Houp-la!

SCENE III

_AINSLIE; afterwards BRODIE; afterwards HUNT and OFFICERS_

AINSLIE. Ca' ye that mainners? Ye're grand gentry by your way o't! Eh
sirs, my hench! Ay, that was the Badger. Man, but ye'll look bonnie
hangin'! (_A faint whistle._) Lord's sake, what's thon? Ay, it'll be
Hunt an' his lads. (_Whistle repeated._) Losh me, what gars him whustle,
whustle? Does he think me deaf? (_Goes up. BRODIE enters from office,
stands an instant, and sees him making a signal through the arch._)

BRODIE. Rats! Rats! (_Hides L. among lumber. Enter noiselessly through
arch HUNT and OFFICERS._)

HUNT. Birds caught?

AINSLIE. They're a' ben the house, mister.

HUNT. All three?

AINSLIE. The haill set, mister.