“Hech, sirs!” she cried, addressing the Seaton in general, “gien the auld man be i’ the richt,——”
“She’ll pe aal in ta right, Mistress Partan, and tat you’ll pe seeing,” said Duncan, who, hearing her first cry, had stopped his drone, and played softly, listening.
But Meg went on without heeding him any more than was implied in the repetition of her exordium.
“Gien the auld man be i’ the richt, it’ll be the marchioness hersel’ ’at’s h’ard o’ the ill duin’s o’ her factor, an’s comin’ to see efter her fowk! An’ it’ll be Ma’colm’s duin’, an’ that’ll be seen. But the bonny laad winna ken the state o’ the herbour, an’ he’ll be makin’ for the moo’ o’ ’t, an’ he’ll jist rin ’s bonny boatie agrun’ ’atween the twa piers, an’ that’ll no be a richt hame-comin’ for the leddy o’ the lan’, an’ what’s mair, Ma’colm ’ill get the wyte (blame) o’ ’t, an’ that’ll be seen. Sae ye maun some o’ ye to the pier-heid, an’ luik oot to gie ’im warnin’.”
Her own husband was the first to start, proud of the foresight of his wife.
“Haith, Meg!” he cried, “ye’re maist as guid at the lang sicht as the piper himsel’!”
Several followed him, and as they ran, Meg cried after them, giving her orders as if she had been vice-admiral of the red, in a voice shrill enough to pierce the worst gale that ever blew on northern shore.
“Ye’ll jist tell the bonnie laad to haud wast a bit an’ rin her ashore, an’ we’ll a’ be there an’ hae her as dry ’s Noah’s ark in a jiffie. Tell her leddyship we’ll cairry the boat, an’ her intill ’t, to the tap o’ the Boar’s Tail, gien she’ll gie ’s her orders.— Winna we, laads?”
“We can but try!” said one. “—But the Fisky ’ill be waur to get a grip o’ nor Nancy here,” he added, turning suddenly upon the plumpest girl in the place, who stood next to him. She foiled him however of the kiss he had thought to snatch, and turned the laugh from herself upon him, so cleverly avoiding his clutch that he staggered into the road, and nearly fell upon his nose.
By the time the Partan and his companions reached the pier-head, something was dawning in the vague of sea and sky that might be a sloop and standing for the harbour. Thereupon the Partan and Jamie Ladle jumped into a small boat and pulled out. Dubs, who had come from Scaurnose on the business of the conjuration, had stepped into the stern, not to steer but to show a white ensign—somebody’s Sunday shirt he had gathered, as they ran, from a furze-bush, where it hung to dry, between the Seaton and the harbour.