“Christie Johnstone, what can these people live on? two hundred a year? living is cheap here—confound the wind!”
“Twahundred? Fifty! Vile count.”
“Don't call me vile count. I am Ipsden, and my name's Richard. Now, then, be smart with your names.”
Three men stepped forward, gave their names, had their widows provided for, and went for their sou'westers, etc.
“Stay,” said Lord Ipsden, writing. “To Christina Johnstone, out of respect for her character, one thousand pounds.”
“Richard! dinna gang,” cried Christie, “oh, dinna gang, dinna gang, dinna gang; it's no your business.”
“Will you lend me your papa's Flushing jacket and sou'wester, my dear? If I was sure to be drowned, I'd go!”
Christie ran in for them.
In the mean time, discomposed by the wind, and by feelings whose existence neither he, nor I, nor any one suspected, Saunders, after a sore struggle between the frail man and the perfect domestic, blurted out:
“My lord, I beg your lordship's pardon, but it blows tempestuous.”