“Salmon,” cried Bigley, “and a big one.”
“Well, let’s catch him, then,” cried Bob excitedly, the gloomy feeling forgotten now in the excitement of the scene.
“Go on!” cried Bigley, handing him the net, and armed therewith Bob began to wade about, hunting the salmon from side to side of the pool, under my directions, for being high up on the dry, I could see the fish far better than those who were wading.
But it was all labour in vain. Twice over Bob touched the salmon, but it was too quick for him, and flung itself over the net splashing him from head to foot, but only encouraging him to make fresh exertions.
“Here, you come and try!” he cried at last. “You’re not tired. Do you hear? You come and try, Sep Duncan. They’re the slipperiest fishes I ever saw.”
I shook my head. I was dry, and meant to keep so now, and said so.
“It’s of no use to try,” said Bigley, “not till the water’s nearly gone. You can’t catch ’em.”
“Why, you knew that all along!” I cried.
“To be sure I did; but you wouldn’t have believed me if I’d said so. Let’s wait. In half an hour it will be all right, and we can get the lot.”
So we waited impatiently, wading and creeping from stone to stone, and trying to count the fish in the weir pool; but not very successfully, for some we counted over and over again, and others were like the little pig in the herd, they would not stand still to be counted.