“Hech! y' are a dour wife!” cried Newhaven.
The dour wife bent her eyes on the ground.
The people were still collected at the foot of the street, but they were now in knots, when in dashed Flucker, arriving by a short cut, and crying: “She does na ken, she does na ken, she was ower moedest to look, I daur say, and ye'll no tell her, for he's a blackguard, an' he's just making a fule o' the puir lass, and if she kens what she has done for him, she'll be fonder o' him than a coow o' her cauf.”
“Oh, Flucker! we maun tell her, it's her lad, her ain lad, she saved,” expostulated a woman.
“Did ever my feyther do a good turn till ye?” cried Flucker. “Awel, then, ye'll no tell the lassie, she's weel as she is; he's gaun t' Enngland the day. I cannie gie ye a' a hidin',” said he, with an eye that flashed volumes of good intention on a hundred and fifty people; “but I am feytherless and motherless, an' I can fa' on my knees an' curse ye a' if ye do us sic an ill turn, an' then ye'll see whether ye'll thrive.”
“We'll no tell, Flucker, ye need na curse us ony way.”
His lordship, with all the sharp authority of a skipper, ordered Master Flucker to the pier, with a message to the yacht; Flucker qua yachtsman was a machine, and went as a matter of course. “I am determined to tell her,” said Lord Ipsden to Lady Barbara.
“But,” remonstrated Lady Barbara, “the poor boy says he will curse us if we do.”
“He won't curse me.”
“How do you know that?”