_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.”