“Why, its weam’s all loose,” he cried, “and it’s quite deid! Eh, but it’s ane o’ yer cames, Maister Kenneth. Here,” he cried, running to the rock and making a dab with the gaff, which hooked something, “come oot, Scood! They’ve peen making came o’ ye, maister. I thought there was something on the way.”
“It’s too bad,” said Max reproachfully, as Scood, hooked by the kilt, allowed himself to be dragged forward, grinning with all his muscular force, while Kenneth lay back roaring with laughter, and wiping his eyes.
“Yes, it was too bad,” he said feebly, and in a voice half choked with mirth. “But never mind; you show him now, Tawy. Make him catch a salmon.”
“No,” said Max, stepping back and laying down the rod; “you are only making fun of me.”
“Nay, I’ll no’ mak’ fun o’ thee, laddie,” said Tavish. “Come wi’ me, and ye shall get a saumon, and a gude ane. Let them laugh, but bide a wee, and we’ll laugh at them.”
Max shook his head, but the great forester seemed to be so thoroughly in earnest, and to look so disappointed, that, after a moment’s hesitation, he stooped and picked up the rod once more, while Tavish took hold of his arm and led him toward another stone, upon which whosoever stood had the full command of a broad deep pool, into which the waters of the river surged and were slowly eddied round and round.
“Now then,” said Tavish, making a careful examination of the fly, “ye’ll do as I tell ye, and before long we’ll hae a bonnie fush.”