Part 11 (2/2)
This sally awakened the satire that ever lies ready in piscatory bosoms.
”Wasting his time! ye're no blate. Oh, ye'll be for taking him to the college to laern pheesick--and teach maenners.”
”Ye need na begin on me,” said the woman. ”I'm no match for Newhaven.”
So saying she cut short the dispute by carrying off the gristle of contention.
”Another enemy to art,” said Gatty, hurling away his pencil.
The young fishwife inquired if there were any more griefs. What she had heard had not accounted, to her reason, for her companion's depression.
”Are ye sick, laddy?” said she.
”No, Christie, not sick, but quite, quite down in the mouth.”
She scanned him thirty seconds.
”What had ye till your dinner?”
”I forget.”
”A choep, likely?”
”I think it was.”
”Or maybe it was a steak?”
”I dare say it was a steak.”
”Taste my girdle cake, that I've brought for ye.”
She gave him a piece; he ate it rapidly, and looked gratefully at her.
”Noo, div ye no think shame to look me in the face? Ye hae na dined ava.” And she wore an injured look.
”Sit ye there; it's ower late for dinner, but ye'll get a cup tea. Doon i' the mooth, nae wonder, when naething gangs doon your--”
In a minute she placed a tea-tray, and ran into the kitchen with a teapot.
The next moment a yell was heard, and she returned laughing, with another teapot.
”The wife had maskit tea till hersel',” said this lawless forager.
Tea and cake on the table--beauty seated by his side--all in less than a minute.
He offered her a piece of cake.
”Na! I am no for any.”
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