Francesca and I were now obliged to creep from under the tarpaulins and personate the disheveled ladies on the strand.
"Will your hair come down?" asked the manager gravely.
"It will and shall," we rejoined; and it did.
"The ladies wrang their fingers white,
The maidens tore their hair."
"Do tear your hair, Jessie! It's the only thing you have to do, and you never do it on time!"
The Wrig made ready to howl with offended pride, but we soothed her, and she tore her yellow curls with her chubby hands.
"And lang, lang may the maidens sit
Wi' their gowd kaims i' their hair,
A waitin' for their ain dear luves,
For them they'll see nae mair."
I did a bit of sobbing here that would have been a credit to Sarah Siddons.
"Splendid! Grand!" cried Sir Patrick, as he stretched himself fifty fathoms below the imaginary surface, and gave explicit ante-mortem directions to the other Scots lords to spread themselves out in like manner.
"Half ower, half ower to Aberdour,
'Tis fifty fathoms deep,
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet."
"Oh, it is grand!" he repeated jubilantly.
