Act 4 — SCENE I

Smith, Moore, Ainslie

Smith (entering first). Come on. Coast clear.

Moore (after they have come to the front.) Ain’t he turned up yet?

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, crow-bars, 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 centrebit.

Smith. That’s all you know. Here she is, bless her! Portrait of George as a gay hironmonger.

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.)