Away I went, therefore, leaving the two men sitting down to a bottle and a great mass of papers; and crossing the road in front of the inn, walked down upon the beach.  With the wind in that quarter, only little wavelets, not much bigger than I had seen upon a lake, beat upon the shore.  But the weeds were new to me—­some green, some brown and long, and some with little bladders that crackled between my fingers.  Even so far up the firth, the smell of the sea-water was exceedingly salt and stirring; the Covenant, besides, was beginning to shake out her sails, which hung upon the yards in clusters; and the spirit of all that I beheld put me in thoughts of far voyages and foreign places.

I looked, too, at the seamen with the skiff—­big brown fellows, some in shirts, some with jackets, some with coloured handkerchiefs about their throats, one with a brace of pistols stuck into his pockets, two or three with knotty bludgeons, and all with their case-knives.  I passed the time of day with one that looked less desperate than his fellows, and asked him of the sailing of the brig.  He said they would get under way as soon as the ebb set, and expressed his gladness to be out of a port where there were no taverns and fiddlers; but all with such horrifying oaths, that I made haste to get away from him.

This threw me back on Ransome, who seemed the least wicked of that gang, and who soon came out of the inn and ran to me, crying for a bowl of punch.  I told him I would give him no such thing, for neither he nor I was of an age for such indulgences.  “But a glass of ale you may have, and welcome,” said I. He mopped and mowed at me, and called me names; but he was glad to get the ale, for all that; and presently we were set down at a table in the front room of the inn, and both eating and drinking with a good appetite.

Here it occurred to me that, as the landlord was a man of that county, I might do well to make a friend of him.  I offered him a share, as was much the custom in those days; but he was far too great a man to sit with such poor customers as Ransome and myself, and he was leaving the room, when I called him back to ask if he knew Mr. Rankeillor.

“Hoot, ay,” says he, “and a very honest man.  And, O, by-the-by,” says he, “was it you that came in with Ebenezer?” And when I had told him yes, “Ye’ll be no friend of his?” he asked, meaning, in the Scottish way, that I would be no relative.

I told him no, none.

“I thought not,” said he, “and yet ye have a kind of gliff* of Mr. Alexander.”

     * Look.

I said it seemed that Ebenezer was ill-seen in the country.

“Nae doubt,” said the landlord.  “He’s a wicked auld man, and there’s many would like to see him girning in the tow*.  Jennet Clouston and mony mair that he has harried out of house and hame.  And yet he was ance a fine young fellow, too.  But that was before the sough** gaed abroad about Mr. Alexander, that was like the death of him.”