“But there’s no watter there,” said Tavish.
“Hold your tongue. You can’t see behind it,” said Kenneth. “How do you know?”
“She knows there’s no watter there, and if there was it wouldn’t hold a fush. You let him throw the flee yonder.”
“Am I to fish with a flea?” said Max.
“No, no, no!” cried Kenneth, stamping about with mirth, while another chopped-off laugh seemed to come from below. “Tavvy means a fly. You go on and do as I say.”
“But, Master Ken, there shall not be a fush there.”
“You Tavvy, if you say another word, I’ll pitch you into the river.”
The great Highlander chuckled softly, like a big turkey practising a gobble, and took off his bonnet to rub his head, while Kenneth hurried Max on, and stood on the shore, while the visitor walked out over the stones amongst which the river ran and foamed, Max looking, rod in hand, like a clumsy tight-rope dancer balancing himself with his pole.
Kenneth held up his hand to Tavish, who stared wonderingly, and took off his cap to look inside it as if he expected an explanation there, but he put it on again, and stood watching his young master and the visitor wonderingly, as the latter, urged by Kenneth, made an attempt to throw the fly, which fell almost at his feet.
“There’s no watter on the far side,” muttered Tavish.