“It's a mon drooning,” was the reply.
The poor fellow, whom Sandy, by aid of his glass, now discovered to be in a wornout condition, was about half a mile east of Newhaven pier-head, and unfortunately the wind was nearly due east. Christie was standing north-northeast, her boat-hook jammed against the sail, which stood as flat as a knife.
The natives of the Old Town were now seen pouring down to the pier and the beach, and strangers were collecting like bees.
“After wit is everybody's wit!!!”—Old Proverb.
The affair was in the Johnstone's hands.
“That boat is not going to the poor man,” said Mrs. Gatty, “it is turning its back upon him.”
“She canna lie in the wind's eye, for as clever as she is,” answered a fishwife.
“I ken wha it is,” suddenly squeaked a little fishwife; “it's Christie Johnstone's lad; it's yon daft painter fr' England. Hech!” cried she, suddenly, observing Mrs. Gatty, “it's your son, woman.”
The unfortunate woman gave a fearful scream, and, flying like a tiger on Liston, commanded him “to go straight out to sea and save her son.”
Jean Carnie seized her arm. “Div ye see yon boat?” cried she; “and div ye mind Christie, the lass wha's hairt ye hae broken? aweel, woman—it's just a race between deeth and Cirsty Johnstone for your son.”