'I will not.'
'Why will ye no lend me the boat?'
'Do I want it sunk, as ye sunk that boat the other day? Go away with ye. Ye're an idle lot, you MacNicols. Ye'll be drooned some day.'
'We want it for the fishing, Peter,' said Rob, who took no notice of the tailor's ill-temper. 'I'll give ye a shilling a week for the loan o't.'
'A shilling a week!' said Peter with a laugh. 'A shilling a week!
Where's your shilling?'
'There,' said Rob, putting it plump down on the bench.
The tailor looked at the shilling; took it up, bit it, and put it in his pocket.
'Very well,' said he, 'but mind, if ye sink my boat, ye'll have three pounds to pay.'
Rob went back eager and joyous. Forthwith, a thorough inspection of the boat was set about by the lads in conjunction; they tested the oars; they tested the thole-pins; they had a new piece of cork put into the bottom. For that evening, when it grew a little more towards dusk, they would make their first cast with their net.
Yes; and that evening, when it had quite turned to dusk, the people of Erisaig were startled with a new proclamation. It was Neil MacNicol, standing in front of the cottages, and boldly calling forth these words: