“Then you are going to try now. Take this rod. Hold it in both hands, so. There, you see there is a grand salmon fly on.”
“Yes, I see.”
“Well, now, do just as I do. There’s not much line out. Give it a wave like this, just as if you were making a figure eight in the air, and then try to let your fly fall gently just there.”
Max had taken the rod, and stood watching Kenneth, who had taken the other, and, giving it a wave, he made the fly fall lightly on the short grass beside the river.
“Is this a salmon leap, then?” asked Max innocently.
“No; but there’s one higher up. Why?”
“Because I thought the salmon must leap out of the river on to the grass to take the fly.”
“Hoo—hoo—hoo! Hoogle—hoogle—hoogle! I beg your pairdon!”
Tavish had burst out into a kind of roar, as near to the above as English letters will sound. Perhaps he was laughing in Gaelic, with a cross of Scandinavian; but, whatever it was, he seemed heartily ashamed of his rudeness, and looked as solemn as a judge.
“Don’t laugh, Tavvy,” cried Kenneth, to conceal his own mirth. “Why, can’t you see that I was making you practise on the grass before letting you throw in the water.”