"It 's hersel'!" cried Malcolm in delight. "Aboot the size a muckle
herrin' boat, but nae mair like ane than Lady Florimel 's like
Meg Partan! It 'll be jist gran' to hae a cratur sae near leevin'
to guide an' tak yer wull o'! I had nae idea she was gaein' to be
onything like sae bonny. I'll no be fit to manage her in a squall
though. I maun hae anither han'. An' I winna hae a laddie aither.
It maun be a grown man, or I winna tak in han' to baud her abune
the watter. I wull no. I s' hae Blue Peter himsel' gien I can get
him. Eh! jist luik at her--wi' her bit gaff tappie set, and her
jib an a', booin' an' booin', an' comin' on ye as gran' 's ony born
leddy!"
He shut up his telescope, ran down the hill, unlocked the private
door at its foot, and in three or four minutes was waiting her on
the harbour wall.
She was a little cutter--and a lovely show to eyes capable of the
harmonies of shape and motion. She came walking in, as the Partan,
whom Malcolm found on the pierhead, remarked, "like a leddy closin'
her parasol as she cam." Malcolm jumped on board, and the two men
who had brought her round, gave up their charge.
She was full decked, with a dainty little cabin. Her planks were
almost white--there was not a board in her off which one might
not, as the Partan expanded the common phrase, "ait his parritch,
an' never fin' a mote in 's mou'." Her cordage was all so clean,
her standing rigging so taut, everything so shipshape, that Malcolm
was in raptures.
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