bottle._)
Deacon, let's see your gless.

BRODIE. Not an inch of it.

MOORE. No rotten shirking, Deacon!

(AINSLIE. I'm sayin', man, let's see your gless.

BRODIE. Go to the deuce!)

AINSLIE. But I'm sayin'----

BRODIE. Haven't I to play to-night?

AINSLIE. But, man, ye'll drink to bonnie Jean Watt?

BRODIE. Ay, I'll follow you there. _A la reine de mes amours!_
(_Drinks._) What fiend put this in your way, you hound? You've filled
me with raw stuff. By the muckle deil!----

MOORE. Don't hit him, Deacon; tell his mother.

HUNT (_aside_). Oho!

SCENE III

_To these, SMITH, RIVERS_

SMITH. Where's my beloved? Deakin, my beauty, where are you? Come to the
arms of George, and let him introduce you. Capting Starlight Rivers!
Capting, the Deakin: Deakin, the Capting. An English nobleman on the
grand tour, to open his mind, by the Lard!

RIVERS. Stupendiously pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Deaking,
split me!

BRODIE. We don't often see England's heroes our way, Captain, but when
we do, we make them infernally welcome.

RIVERS. Prettily put, sink me! (A demned genteel sentiment, stap my
vitals!)

BRODIE. O Captain! you flatter me. (We Scotsmen have our qualities, I
suppose, but we are but rough and ready at the best. There's nothing
like your Englishman for genuine distinction. He is nearer France than
we are, and smells of his neighbourhood. That d----d thing, the _je ne
sais quoi_, too! Lard, Lard, split me! stap my vitals! O such manners
are pure, pure, pure. They are, by the shade of Claude Duval!)

RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, Mr. Deakin (this is passatively too much). What will
you sip? Give it the _h_anar of a neam.

BRODIE. By these most _h_anarable hands now, Captain, you shall not. On
such an occasion I could play host with Lucifer himself. Here, Clarke,
Mother Midnight! Down with you, Captain (_forcing him boisterously into
a chair_). I don't know if you can lie, but, sink me! you shall sit.
(_Drinking, etc., in dumb-show._)

MOORE (_aside to SMITH_). We've nobbled him, Geordie!

SMITH (_aside to MOORE_). As neat as ninepence! He's taking it down like
mother's milk. But there'll be wigs on the green to-morrow, Badger!
It'll be twopence and toddle with George Smith.

MOORE. O, muck! Who's afraid of him? (_To AINSLIE._) Hang on, Slinkie.

HUNT (_who is feigning drunkenness, and has overheard; aside_). By
Jingo!

RIVERS. Will you sneeze, Mr. Deakin, sir?

BRODIE. Thanks; I have all