“I think it is; a very good one. What do you say to this? I am going to put all my siller in a carrying steamer—one of the Red-White fleet. And more to it. I am to be skipper, and sail her from the North Sea to London.”
“Will she be a big boat, Andrew?”
“She will carry three thousand ‘trunks’ of fish in her ice chambers. What do you think of that?”
“I am perfectly dazzled and dumbfoundered with the thought of it. You will be a man of some weight in the world, when that comes to pass.”
“I will be Captain Binnie, of the North Sea fleet, and Sophy will have reason enough for her muslins, and ribbons, and trinkum-trankums—God bless her!”
“You are a far forecasting man, Andrew.”
“I have been able to clear my day and my way, by the help of Providence, so far,” said Andrew, with a pious reservation; “just as my decent kirk-going father was before me. But that is neither here nor there, and please God, this will be a monumental year in my life.”
“It will that. To get the ship and the wife you want, within its twelve bounds, is a blessing beyond ordinary. I am proud to hear tell of such good fortune coming your way, Andrew.”
“Ay; I knew you would. But I have the siller, and I have the skill, and why shouldn’t I lift myself a bit?”
“And Sophy with you? Sophy will be an ornament to any place you lift her to. And you may come to own a fishing fleet yourself some day, Andrew!”