Then all the fishboys struck up a dismal chant of victory.
“Yoo-hoo—Custy's won the day—Beeny's scairtit,” going up on the last syllable.
Christie moved slowly away toward her own house, but before she could reach the door she began to whimper—little fool.
Thereat chorus of young Athenians chanted:
“Yu-hoo! come back, Beeny, ye'll maybe win yet. Custy's away greetin” (going up on the last syllable).
“I'm no greetin, ye rude bairns,” said Christie, bursting into tears, and retiring as soon as she had effected that proof of her philosophy.
It was about four hours later; Christie had snatched some repose. The wind, as Flucker prognosticated, had grown into a very heavy gale, and the Firth was brown and boiling.
Suddenly a clamor was heard on the shore, and soon after a fishwife made her appearance, with rather a singular burden.
Her husband, ladies; rien que cela.
She had him by the scruff of the neck; he was dos-'a-dos, with his booted legs kicking in the air, and his fists making warlike but idle demonstrations and his mouth uttering ineffectual bad language.