At last Mr. Murray took off his cap, scratched his head, talked Gaelic to everyone in turn, and, after his consultation, came over to me and said, “I’m right sad, mem, but the haddie boatie can no’ go in the water the dee; she’d jist go to pieces on the rocks, whatever.”
“Oh, I am so sorry, but don’t mind me,” I replied as graciously as I could, thankful for the deliverance.
“Na, na, but the haddie for luck! We au wanted ye to catch the haddie for luck yersel’, mem.”
“Oh, I’ll come another day and catch the haddie for luck,” and I inwardly thanked Heaven I had been saved the terrors of the deep.
“To-morrow I will come again and catch the haddie, and paint the name on the boat, if you like.”
“Oi, oi, paint the name yersel’, that’ll be fine; but ye’ll do it nice, now, won’t you? I want it weel done.”
Who could be offended at such a remark, made without the slightest idea of rudeness? A little such honest, straight-forward speaking is a treat, not an offence, in these days of gilded sayings and leaden thoughts.
I never caught that haddie, but I took my palette and painted the name in oils upon her sides, and happily the Ethel Tweedie has proved one of the luckiest boats in the herring fleet.
What a contrast those two launches were—the wealth of the one ship, the wealth of the onlookers, the wealth of the prospective passengers and cargo, the power and strength and value of it all.
On the other side—the simplicity of the humble little craft, the simplicity of the fisher-folk, the simplicity of the life of the fishing village.