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"We are in heavy sorrow; puir Liston Cairnie and his son Willy lie deed at the bottom o' the Firrth." "Gude help us!" said Sandy, and his voice sank. "An', oh, Sandy, the wife does na ken, and it's hairt-breaking to see her, and hear her; we canna get her tell't; ye're the auldest mon here; ye'll tell her, will ye no, Sandy?" "No, me, that' I will not!"
"Maybe she has fand the herrin'," said a ten-year-old. "Haw! haw! haw!" went the others. "She find the herrin', when there's five hundred fishermen after them baith sides the Firrth." The youngster was discomfited. In fact the expedition bore no signs of fishing. The six boats sailed at sundown, led by Flucker. He brought to on the south side of Inch Keith, and nothing happened for about an hour.
"Me, impudent? how daur ye speak against my charackter, that's kenned for decency o' baith sides the Firrth." "Oh, ye're sly enough to beguile the men, but we ken ye." Christie. 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.
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