“Tchah! Carney!” he cried, screwing up his face. “Look here, I want to catch a few fish and make a little money, so if that long Scot is coming courting, take him somewhere else. Be off!”
“If Mr Duncan Leslie is coming to say good-day, uncle, I see no reason why he should not say it here,” said Louise, calmly enough now, and with the slight flush which had suffused her cheeks fading out.
“Good-day. A great tall sheepish noodle who don’t know when he’s well off,” grumbled the fisher, throwing out once more as a tall gentlemanly-looking young fellow of about eight-and-twenty stepped actively from rock to rock till he had joined the group, raising his soft tweed hat to the ladies and shaking hands.
“What a lovely morning!” he said eagerly. “I saw you come down. Much sport, Mr Vine?” he added, as he held out his hand.
“No,” said Uncle Luke, nodding and holding tightly on to his rod. “Hands full. Can’t you see?”
“Oh, yes, I see. One at you now.”
“Thankye. Think I couldn’t see?” said the old man, striking and missing his fish. “Very kind of you to come and see how I was getting on.”
“But I didn’t,” said the new-comer, smiling. “I knew you didn’t want me.”
“Here, Louie, make a note of that,” said Uncle Luke, sharply. “The Scotch are not so dense as they pretend they are.”
“Uncle!”