DEACON BB.ODIE
side, and looked full around him/* It is said that he accused
his companion of pusillanimity, and even kicked him as
they were leaving the Court. The Deacon was disgusted at
Smith's failure to play up to the occasion.
XV
Of the last days of Deacon Brodie I have elsewhere given a
full account. The prisoners were confined in the condemned
cell of the Tolbooth, known as the Iron Room, which they
occupied along with two other housebreakers then under
sentence of death for robbing the Dundee Bank. Each was
chained by one foot to an iron bar, called "the goad/' which
extended the whole length of the chamber, the several rings
thereon allowing the captives to move about to the extent
of their tether. "Brodie's chain is longer than the rest, as he
can sit at a table and write by himself." Of this privilege the
Deacon took advantage to approach divers great folk, begging
their influence to get his sentence commuted to transportation.
Henry Dundas (Lord Melville), the Duchess of Buccleuch, and
his brother members of the Town Council were among the
recipients of these petitions for a reprieve. But, alas, his
prayers for mercy remained unanswered. While awaiting
replies, he cut out on the dungeon floor the figure of a draught-
board, upon which he was in use to play with the companions
of his fate, or, in default of them, with his right hand against
his left. A poor substitute, this, for the excitement of the old
games at hazard. When the two Dundee burglars received a
respite of six weeks, Smith remarked upon the shortness of
the time. "George,*' cried the Deacon, passionately, "what
would you and I not give for six weeks longer? Six weeks
would be an age to us." But as a rule he was cheerful and
apparently resigned, for he had good hopes of an unofficial
scheme to effect a gaol delivery in his favour. His friends were
free to visit him, and a plan was concerted, whereby, with the
assistance of a surgeon and certain mechanical devices after-
mentioned, he might still contrive to "cheat the wuddy."
The night before the execution he sang, as I have said, his last
stave from The Beggar's Opera. He also made his will, a
curious instance of posthumous humour, containing certain