But my cogitations were interrupted by Willie Murray exclaiming, “Will ye please to gie the name?”
“Yes; what do you want it called?”
“Your own name, mem, if ye will please to humble yersel’ to gie it.”
“Mrs. Tweedie.”
“Na, na, na, mistress, whatever, jist yer surname.”
“Well, Tweedie is my surname.”
“Na, na, no’ that surname. Yer other surname, mistress.”
“Do you mean Ethel?”
“Oi, oi, Essel—Essel.” (There is no “th” in Gaelic, and their tongues cannot frame it.) “Oi, oi, that be it, mem—Essel Tweedie, whatever,” and he took off his hat as though he hoped the wind would blow such an extraordinary name into his cranium.
By this time men and women had put their shoulders to the boat, and had got her down to the water’s edge. Just as she touched the sea I threw the bottle with all my might, nearly upsetting myself in the endeavour, for, if the bottle should not shatter to atoms, these superstitious fisher-folk would think that their new boat was cursed.