ts. As sure as my name's
Jerry Hunt, I wouldn't take one-ninety-nine in gold for my chance of
that 'ere two hundred!

SCENE III

_HUNT; to him, JEAN_

HUNT. Well, my dear, and how about your gentleman friend now? How about
Deacon Brodie?

JEAN. I dinna ken your name, sir, nor yet whae ye are; but this is a
very poor employ for ony gentleman--it sets ill wi' ony gentleman to
cast my shame in my teeth.

HUNT. Lord love you, my dear, that ain't my line of country. Suppose
you're not married and churched a hundred thousand times, what odds to
Jerry Hunt? Jerry, my Pamela Prue, is a cove as might be your parent; a
cove renowned for the ladies' friend (and he's dead certain to be on
your side). What I can't get over is this: here's this Mr. Deacon Brodie
doing the genteel at home, and leaving a nice young 'oman like you--as a
cove may say--to take it out on cold potatoes. That's what I can't get
over, Mrs. Watt. I'm a family man myself; and I can't get over it.

JEAN. And whae said that to ye? They lee'd whatever. I get naething but
guid by him; and I had nae richt to gang to his house; and O, I just ken
I've been the ruin of him!

HUNT. Don't you take on, Mrs. Watt. Why, now I hear you piping up for
him, I begin to think a lot of him myself. I like a cove to be
open-handed and free.

JEAN. Weel, sir, and he's a' that.

HUNT. Well, that shows what a wicked world this is. Why, they told
me----. Well, well, "here's the open 'and and the 'appy 'art." And how
much, my dear--speaking as a family man--now, how much might your
gentleman friend stand you in the course of a year?

JEAN. What's your wull?

HUNT. That's a mighty fancy shawl, Mrs. Watt. (I should like to take its
next-door neighbour to Mrs. Hunt in King Street, Common Garden.) What's
about the figure?

JEAN. It's paid for. Ye can sweir to that.

HUNT. Yes, my dear, and so is King George's crown; but I don't know what
it cost, and I don't know where the blunt came from to pay for it.

JEAN. I'm thinking ye'll be a vera clever gentleman.

HUNT. So I am, my dear; and I like you none the worse for being artful
yourself. But between friends now, and speaking as a family man----

JEAN. I'll be wishin' ye a fine nicht. (_Curtsies and goes out._)

SCENE IV

HUNT (_solus_)

HUNT. Ah! that's it, is it? "My fancy man's my 'ole delight," as we say
in Bow Street. But which _is_ the fancy man? George the Dook, or William
the Deacon? One or both? (