“Done with you, quite,” said the old man fiercely, as he began to bait his hook with another worm.
“And I say, Master Rayburn, I want to come and read with you.”
“An untoward generation,” said the old man. “There, be off! I’m wasting time, and I want my trout, and thymallus, my grayling, for man must eat, and it’s very nice to eat trout and grayling, boy. Be off! I’ve quite done with you.” And the old man turned his back, and waded a few steps upstream.
“I say, Master Rayburn,” continued the lad, “when you said ‘Bah!’ in that sharp way, it was just like the bark of one of the great black birds.”
“What, sir!” snapped the old man; “compare me to a raven?”
“You compared me and my father, and the Darleys, all to ravens, sir.”
“Humph! Yes, so I did,” muttered the old fisherman.
“I didn’t mean to be rude. But you reminded me: I saw one of them fly over just before I met you, sir. Do you know where they are nesting this year?”
“Eh?” cried the fisherman, turning sharply, with a look of interest in his handsome old face. “Well, not for certain, Mark, but I’ve seen them several times lately—mischievous, murderous wretches. They kill a great many lambs. They’re somewhere below, near the High Cliffs. I shouldn’t at all wonder, if you got below there and hid among the bushes, you’d see where they came. It’s sure to be in the rock face.”
“I should like to get the young ones,” said the lad.