Sandy Liston was minding his own business, lazily mending a skait-net, which he had attached to a crazy old herring-boat hauled up to rot.
Christie sat down, pale and languid, by him, on a creepie that a lass who had been baiting a line with mussels had just vacated; suddenly she seized Jean's arm with a convulsive motion; Jean looked up—it was the London steamboat running out from Leith to Granton Pier to take up her passengers for London. Charles Gatty was going by that boat; the look of mute despair the poor girl gave went to Jean's heart; she ran hastily from the group, and cried out of sight for poor Christie.
A fishwife, looking through a telescope at the swimmer, remarked: “He's coming in fast; he's a gallant swimmer, yon—
“Can he dee't?” inquired Christie of Sandy Liston.
“Fine thaat,” was the reply; “he does it aye o' Sundays when ye are at the kirk.”
“It's no oot o' the kirk window ye'll hae seen him, Sandy, my mon,” said a young fishwife.
“Rin for my glass ony way, Flucker,” said Christie, forcing herself to take some little interest.
Flucker brought it to her, she put her hand on his shoulder, got slowly up, and stood on the creepie and adjusted the focus of her glass; after a short view, she said to Flucker:
“Rin and see the nook.” She then leveled her glass again at the swimmer.
Flucker informed her the nook said “half eleven”—Scotch for “half past ten.”