As a comment to this proposal, she tucked up the sleeves of her short gown. He tried to run by her; she caught him by the bosom, and gave him a violent push, that sent him several paces backward; he looked half fierce, half astounded; ere he could quite recover himself, his little servant forced a pipe into his hand, and he smoked contented and peaceable. Before tobacco the evil passions fall, they tell me. The cause of this quarrel soon explained itself; up came Sandy Liston, cursing and swearing. “What! ye hae gotten till your wife's; that's the place for ye; to say there's a brig in distress, and ye'll let her go on the rocks under your noses. 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.”