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'Lat me gang, Robert, gasped Shargar. 'Losh, man! ye'll be on Black Geordie in anither ten meenits, an' me ahin' ye upo' Reid Rorie. An' faith gin we binna at Stanehive afore the Dutchman wi' 's boddom foremost, it'll be the faut o' the horse and no o' the men. Robert's heart gave a bound of hope. 'Hoo 'ill ye get them, Shargar? he asked eagerly.
'Whaur's the Amphitrite, Alan? asked Shargar, for Robert was dumb with disappointment and rage. 'Half doon to Stanehive by this time, I'm thinkin', answered Alan. 'For a brewin' tub like her, she fummles awa nae ill wi' a licht win' astarn o' her. But I'm doobtin' afore she win across the herrin-pot her fine passengers 'll win at the boddom o' their stamacks.
It's like to blaw a bonnetfu', and she rows awfu' in ony win'. I dinna think she cud capsize, but for wamlin' she's waur nor a bairn with the grips. In absolute helplessness, the boys had let him talk on: there was nothing more to be done; and Alan was in a talkative mood. 'Fegs! gin 't come on to blaw, he resumed, 'I wadna wonner gin they got the skipper to set them ashore at Stanehive.
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