"Ye had measured them wi' your walking-stick, sir; there's just ae scale ye didna wipe off, though ye are a carefu' mon, Mr. Miller; sae I laid the bait for ye an' fine ye took it."
Miller took out his snuff-box, and tapping it said:
"Will ye go into partnership with me, my dear?"
"Ay, sir!" was the reply. "When I'm aulder an' ye're younger."
At this moment the four merchants, believing it useless to disguise their co-operation, returned to see what could be done.
"We shall give you a guinea a barrel."
"Why, ye offered her twenty-two shillings before."
"That we never did, Mr. Miller."
"Haw! haw!" went Flucker.
Christie looked down and blushed.
Eyes met eyes, and without a word spoken all was comprehended and silently approved. There was no nonsense uttered about morality in connection with dealing.
Mr. Miller took an enormous pinch of snuff, and drew for the benefit of all present the following inference:
MR. MILLER'S APOTHEGM.
"Friends and neighbors! when a man's heed is gray with age and thoucht _(pause)_ he's just fit to go to schule to a young lass o' twenty."
There was a certain middle-aged fishwife, called Beeny Liston, a tenant of Christie Johnstone's; she had not paid her rent for some time, and she had not been pressed for it; whether this, or the whisky she was in the habit of taking, rankled in her mind, certain it is she had always an ill word for her landlady.
She now met her, envied her success, and called out in a coarse tone:
"Oh, ye're a gallant quean; ye'll be waur than ever the noo."
"What's wrang, if ye please?" said the Johnstone, sharply.
Reader, did you ever see two fallow bucks commence a duel?
They strut round, eight yards apart, tails up, look carefully another way to make the other think it all means nothing, and, being both equally sly, their horns come together as if by concert.
Even so commenced this duel of tongues between these two heroines.
Beeny Liston, looking at everybody but Christie, addressed the natives who were congregating thus:
"Did ever ye hear o' a decent lass taking the herrin' oot o' the men's mooths?--is yon a woman's pairt, I'm asking ye?"
On this, Christie, looking carefully at all the others except Beeny, inquired with an air of simple curiosity:
"Can onybody tell me wha Liston Carnie's drunken wife is speakin' till? no to ony decent lass, though. Na! ye ken she wad na hae th' impudence!"
"Oh, ye ken fine I'm speakin' till yoursel'."
Here the horns clashed together.
"To me, woman?" _(with admirably acted surprise.)_ "Oo, ay! it will be for the twa years' rent you're awin me. Giest!"
_Beeny Liston._ "Ye're just the impudentest girrl i' the toon, an' ye hae proved it the day" (her arms akimbo).
_Christie (arms akimbo)._ "Me, impudent? how daur ye speak against my charackter, that's kenned for decency o' baith sides the Firrth."
_Beeny (contemptuously)._ "Oh, ye're sly enough to beguile the men, but we ken ye."
_Christie._ "I'm no sly, and" _(drawing near and hissing the words)_ "I'm no like the woman Jean an' I saw in Rose Street, dead drunk on the causeway, while her mon was working for her at sea. If ye're no ben your hoose in ae minute, I'll say that will gar Liston Carnie fling ye ower the pier-head, ye fool-moothed drunken leear--Scairt!"*
*A local word; a corruption from the French _Sortez._
If my reader has seen and heard Mademoiselle Rachel utter her famous _Sortez,_ in "Virginie," he knows exactly with what a gesture and tone the Johnstone uttered this word.
_Beeny (in a voice of whining surprise)._ "Hech! what a spite Flucker Johnstone's dochter has taen against us."
_Christie._ "Scairt!"
_Beeny (in a coaxing voice, and moving a step)._ "Aweel! what's a' your paession, my boenny woman?"
_Christie._ "Scairt!"
Beeny retired before the thunder and lightning of indignant virtue.
Then all the fishboys struck up a dismal chant of victory.
"Yoo-hoo--Custy's won the day--Beeny's scair_tit,"_ going up on the last syllable.
Christie moved slowly away toward her own house, but before she could reach the door she began to whimper--little fool.
Thereat chorus of young Athenians chanted:
"Yu-hoo! come back, Beeny, ye'll maybe win yet. Custy's away gree_tin"_
_(going up on the last syllable)._
"I'm no greetin, ye rude bairns," said Christie, bursting into tears, and retiring as soon as she had effected that proof of her philosophy.
It was about four hours later; Christie had snatched some repose. The wind, as Flucker prognosticated, had grown into a very heavy gale, and the Firth was brown and boiling.
Suddenly a clamor was heard on the shore, and soon after a fishwife made her appearance, with rather a singular burden.
Her husband, ladies; _rien que cela._
She had him by the scruff of the neck; he was _dos-'a-dos,_ with his booted legs kicking in the air, and his fists making warlike but idle demonstrations and his mouth uttering ineffectual bad language.
This worthy had been called a coward by Sandy Liston, and being about to fight with him, and get thrashed, his wife had whipped him up and carried him away; she now flung him down, at some risk of his equilibrium.
"Ye are not fit to feicht wi' Sandy Liston," said she; "if ye are for feichtin, here's for ye."
