But what are ye afraid o'?
there's na danger ?" "Nae danger!" said one of the reproached, "are ye fou ?" "Ye are fou wi' fear yoursel'; of a' the beasts that crawl the airth, a cooward is the ugliest, I think." "The wifes will no let us," said one, sulkily.
"It's the woman in your hairts that keeps ye," roared Sandy hoarsely; "curse ye, ye are sure to dee ane day, and ye are sure to be----!" (a past participle) "soon or late, what signifies when?
Oh! curse the hour ever I was born amang sic a cooardly crew." _( Gun at sea.)_ "There!" "She speaks till ye, hersel'; she cries for maircy; to think that, of a' that hear ye cry, Alexander Liston is the only mon mon enough to answer." _( Gun.)_ "You are mistaken, Mr.Alexander Liston," said a clear, smart voice, whose owner had mingled unobserved with the throng; "there are always men to answer such occasions; now, my lads, your boats have plenty of beam, and, well handled, should live in any sea; who volunteers with Alexander Liston and me ?" The speaker was Lord Ipsden.
The fishwives of Newhaven, more accustomed to measure men than poor little Lady Barbara Sinclair, saw in this man what in point of fact he was--a cool, daring devil, than whom none more likely to lead men into mortal danger, or pull them through it, for that matter.
They recognized their natural enemy, and collected together against him, like hens at the sight of a hawk.
"And would you really entice our men till their death ?" "My life's worth as much as theirs, I suppose.
"Nae! your life! it's na worth a button; when you dee, your next kin will dance, and wha'll greet?
but our men hae wife and bairns to look till." _( Gun at sea.)_ "Ah! I didn't look at it in that light," said Lord Ipsden.

He then demanded paper and ink; Christie Johnstone, who had come out of her house, supplied it from her treasures, and this cool hand actually began to convey a hundred and fifty thousand pounds away, upon a sheet of paper blowing in the wind; when he had named his residuary legatee, and disposed of certain large bequests, he came to the point-- "Christie Johnstone, what can these people live on?
two hundred a year?
living is cheap here--confound the wind!" "Twahundred?
Fifty! Vile count." "Don't call me vile count.

I am Ipsden, and my name's Richard.

Now, then, be smart with your names." Three men stepped forward, gave their names, had their widows provided for, and went for their sou'westers, etc.
"Stay," said Lord Ipsden, writing.

"To Christina Johnstone, out of respect for her character, one thousand pounds." "Richard! dinna gang," cried Christie, "oh, dinna gang, dinna gang, dinna gang; it's no your business." "Will you lend me your papa's Flushing jacket and sou'wester, my dear?
If I was sure to be drowned, I'd go!" Christie ran in for them.
In the mean time, discomposed by the wind, and by feelings whose existence neither he, nor I, nor any one suspected, Saunders, after a sore struggle between the frail man and the perfect domestic, blurted out: "My lord, I beg your lordship's pardon, but it blows tempestuous." "That is why the brig wants us," was the reply.
"My lord, I beg your lordship's pardon," whimpered Saunders.