For a moment the young man felt disposed to avoid meeting Glyddyr, as, to reach the fishing ground he had marked down, he would have to go over the bridge, and then along the rugged path on the other side.
“And if he sees me going back, he’ll think I’m afraid of him,” muttered Chris.
At the thought, he swung his long lithe rod over his shoulder, and strode on, his heavy fishing boots sounding loudly on the rugged stones.
As Chris reached the bridge, Glyddyr was busy with his match-box lighting a fresh cigar, and did not look up till the other was only a few yards away, when he raised his head, saw who was coming, and changed colour. Then the two young men gazed fiercely into each other’s eyes, the look telling plainly enough that what had passed and was going on made them enemies for life.
Chris tramped on, keeping his head up, and naturally, as he did not turn towards his rear, he was soon out of eyeshot, when the sharp report of a yacht’s gun rang out from behind him, the effect being that he turned sharply round to look at the smoke rising half a mile away.
It was a perfectly natural action, but Chris forgot that he was carrying a long, elastic salmon rod, and the effect was curious, for the rod swung through the air with a loud whish, and gave Glyddyr a smart blow on the cheek.
“I beg your pardon,” cried Chris involuntarily, as Glyddyr sprang from the parapet into the roadway, with a menacing look in his eyes.
“You cad!” he roared. “You did that on purpose.”
“No, I did not,” said Chris, quite as hotly. “If I had meant to do it, I should have used the butt of the rod, and knocked you over into the river.”
Glyddyr’s lips seemed to contract till his white teeth were bare; and, dashing down cigar and match, he advanced towards Chris with his fists clenched, till he was within a couple of feet of his rival.