Max had not noticed the rise, but he grasped now the spot where the fish was supposed to be, and made a dash with his rod, sending the line first, the fly after it, and the top of the rod into the stream with a splash.
“Acain! cast acain!” cried Tavish; and Max threw and threw his fly, never going two-thirds of the way toward the pool, where a salmon was patiently waiting for such good things as might be washed down and into the great hole behind the stone.
As the tyro whisked and waved the rod about, the natural result was that he ran out more and more line, which, thanks to the rushing water, was saved from entanglement.
“It’s of no use,” he said at last despondently, after nearly overbalancing himself, and feeling very dizzy once more.
The remark was meant for the forester’s ears, but the sound drowned it, and the forester shouted,—
“Noo acain, laddie! Get a good grip o’ the butt, and send the flee close under the stane; ta fush is there.”
Max drew a long breath, and, after the fashion shown him, gave the rod two or three good swishes in the air, the line flying out well behind, and then with all his might he made a tremendous down-stroke, whose effect was to send the fly right across the pool and on to the black stone, where it caught and held on.
“Drop your rod!” roared Tavish. “Na, na, the point, laddie, the point!”
Tavish was just in time. Another moment, and the rod would have all been in the river. As it was, only the point splashed in, and as the line was slackened the hook fell over sideways and then glided slowly down the side of the rock and dropped lightly into the pool, to go gliding round.
Splash!