One of them was his friend, Joseph Mair. They
ceased their work for a moment to look after him.
"That's the puir laird again," said Joseph, the instant he was
beyond hearing. "Something's wrang wi' him. I wonder what's come
ower him!"
"I haena seen him for a while noo," returned the other. "They tell
me 'at his mither made him ower to the deil afore he cam to the
light; and sae, aye as his birthday comes roun', Sawtan gets the
pooer ower him. Eh, but he's a fearsome sicht whan he's ta'en that
gait!" continued the speaker. "I met him ance i' the gloamin',
jist ower by the toon, wi' his een glowerin' like uily lamps, an'
the slaver rinnin' doon his lang baird. I jist laup as gien I had
seen the muckle Sawtan himsel'."
"Ye nott na (needed not) hae dune that," was the reply. "He's jist
as hairmless, e'en at the warst, as ony lamb. He's but a puir cratur
wha's tribble's ower strang for him--that's a'. Sawtan has as
little to du wi' him as wi' ony man I ken."
CHAPTER IV: PHEMY MAIR
With eyes that stared as if they and not her ears were the organs
of hearing, this talk was heard by a child of about ten years of
age, who sat in the bottom of the ruined boat, like a pearl in a
decaying oyster shell, one hand arrested in the act of dabbling in
a green pool, the other on its way to her lips with a mouthful of
the seaweed called dulse. She was the daughter of Joseph Mair just
mentioned--a fisherman who had been to sea in a man of war (in
consequence of which his to-name or nickname was Blue Peter), where
having been found capable, he was employed as carpenter's mate,
and came to be very handy with his tools: having saved a little
money by serving in another man's boat, he was now building one
for himself.
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