Max’s first “Fush.”
If Max Blande could have done as he liked, he would have said, “No, thank you, I would rather see you fish,” but, with a strong feeling upon him that if he refused to make another trial he would either be laughed at or looked upon as a contemptible coward, he took the long rod, with the line sufficiently drawn from the reel to allow the gaudy fly to hang down by his hand.
“Ye’ll tak’ haud o’ the flee, or maybe ye’ll hae the hook in your han’,” cried Tavish. “That’s richt. Noo ye’ll throw the flee richt oot yonner, and keep drawing a little more line frae the reel at ivery cast. I’ll tell ye whaur to throw. Noo then, tak’ your stan’ richt oot on that big stane whaur the watter comes doon.”
“But it looks so wet and slippery.”
“The watter always mak’s the stanes wet.”
“But it’s dangerous.”
Tavish looked at him with astonishment. He could not conceive the possibility of any one seeing danger in going with a spring from rock to rock among which the beautiful river rushed, and his blue eyes opened widely.
“I mean,” faltered Max, “that it would be so easy to slip in.”
“Oh, I ken the noo,” cried Tavish. “Dinna be skeart, laddie. Ye think she’ll catch a cold. Hey, but ye needna be feart o’ that. The watter comes doon fresh frae the loch, and she wouldna gie cold to a bairn, let alane a bonnie young laird like you.”
Max glanced at Kenneth, who was busily tying on a fly and talking to Scoodrach. So, drawing a long breath, he stepped from the bank on to the first stone, after a stride of about a yard, and then stood still, for the water rushing swiftly round him made him feel dizzy.