That is to say, he did something, but where the ornamented hook fell, or whether it fell at all, he had not the slightest idea.
“A coot cast!” cried Tavish; “richt for the spot, but not long eneuch. Pull oot some more line, laddie, and do’t again.”
Max obeyed, trying to repeat his former performance in the same blind fashion, and involuntarily he cast the fly in the very pool the forester had pointed out, the eddy catching it and giving it a swirl round before carrying it out of the smooth black water and then away down-stream.
“There, she will hae the fush directly. See her rise?”
Max made no reply, but let the fly run to the extent of the line, and, without being told, cast again, and looked at Tavish as if to silently ask if that was right.
To his surprise, the forester was dancing about frantically upon the shore, while Kenneth and Scoodrach seemed to be roaring with laughter.
“Have I done anything very stupid?” said Max to himself.
“Ye winna catch a fush like that,” cried Tavish; and the next moment Max looked at him in horror, for he came with a rush across the stones, and in the most reckless manner, as if at any moment he must fall headlong into the water.
Nothing of the kind. Tavish was a giant in size, but as sure-footed as a goat, and in very few seconds he was alongside Max, bending down to take his keen knife out of his stocking, and looking fiercely at the fisher.
“What have I done?” Max’s lips parted to say, but they did not utter the words, for Tavish had seized him by the jacket, and for the moment ideas of attacks by savage Highlanders made upon peaceful Southrons flashed into the lad’s brain and faded away.