“Freends,” said the man, gravely, “his boat is driving keel uppermost in Kircauldy Bay. We passed her near enough to read the name upon her.”
“But the men will have won to shore, please God?”
The fisherman shook his head.
“She'll hae coupit a mile wast Inch Keith, an' the tide rinning aff the island an' a heavy sea gaun. This is a' Newhaven we'll see of them” (holding up the coat) “till they rise to the top in three weeks' time.”
The man then took the coat, which was now seen to be drenched with water, and hung it up on a line not very far from its unfortunate owner's house. Then, in the same grave and subdued tone in which he had spoken all along, he said, “We are sorry to bring siccan a tale into your toon,” and slowly moved off to rejoin his comrades, who had waited for him at no great distance. They then passed through the Old Town, and in five minutes the calamity was known to the whole place.
After the first stupor, the people in the New Town collected into knots, and lamented their hazardous calling, and feared for the lives of those that had just put to sea in this fatal gale for the rescue of strangers, and the older ones failed not to match this present sorrow with others within their recollection.
In the middle of this, Flucker Johnstone came hastily in from the Old Town and told them he had seen the wife, Beeny Liston, coming through from Granton.
The sympathy of all was instantly turned in this direction.
“She would hear the news.”
“It would fall on her like a thunderclap.”