ook, and Jemmy Rivers, and Deacon Brodie,
Andrew. Particularly Deacon Brodie.

AINSLIE. They're nae frien's o' mine, mister. I ken naething an'
naebody. An' noo I'll get to my bed, wulln't I?

HUNT. We're going to have our little talk out first. After that perhaps
I'll let you go, and perhaps I won't. It all depends on how we get along
together. Now, in a general way, Andrew, and speaking of a man as you
find him, I'm all for peace and quietness myself. That's my usual game,
Andrew, but when I do make a dust I'm considered by my friends to be
rather a good hand at it. So don't you tread upon the worm.

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

HUNT. You leave that to me, Andrew. You shall do your pitch presently.
I'm first on the ground, and I lead off. With a question, Andrew. Did
you ever hear in your life of such a natural curiosity as a Bow Street
Runner?

AINSLIE. Aiblins ay an' aiblins no.

HUNT. "Aiblins ay an' aiblins no." Very good indeed, Andrew. Now, I'll
ask you another: Did you ever see a Bow Street Runner, Andrew? With the
naked eye, so to speak?

AINSLIE. What's your wull?

HUNT. Artful bird! Now since we're getting on so cosy and so free, I'll
ask you another, Andrew: Should you like to see a Bow Street Runner?
(_Producing staff._) 'Cos, if so, you've only got to cast your eyes on
me. Do you queer the red weskit, Andrew? Pretty colour, ain't it? So
nice and warm for the winter too. (_AINSLIE dives, HUNT collars him._)
No, you don't. Not this time. Run away like that before we've finished
our little conversation? You're a nice young man, you are. Suppose we
introduce our wrists into these here darbies? Now we shall get along
cosier and freer than ever. Want to lie down, do you? All right!
anything to oblige.

AINSLIE (_grovelling_). It wasna me, it wasna me. It's bad companions;
I've been lost wi' bad companions an' the drink. An' O mister, ye'll be
a kind gentleman to a puir lad, and me sae weak, and fair rotten wi' the
drink an' that. Ye've a bonnie kind heart, my dear, dear gentleman; ye
wadna hang sitchan a thing as me. I'm no' fit to hang. They ca' me the
Cannleworm! An' I'll dae somethin' for ye, wulln't I? An' ye'll can hang
the ithers?

HUNT. I thought I hadn't mistook my man. Now you look here, Andrew
Ainslie, you're a bad lot. I've evidence to hang you fifty times over.
But the Deacon is my mark. Will you peach, or won't you? You blow the
gaff, and I'll pull you through. You don't, and I'll scra