“Nay, she’s on safe,” he cried, handing the rod back to Max.
“What shall I do now?” said Max nervously.
“She shall play ta fush till she’s tired, and then she will use the gaff.”
“But I’m tired now.”
“But ta fush isna tired, laddie. Wind in, and keep a tight line.”
To Max’s wonder, Tavish went back ashore, and ran down the bank past Kenneth and Scood, to begin picking up big stones and hurling them right into the middle of the pool, so as to disturb the fish, which lay sulking at the bottom, in spite of the steady strain kept on its head.
Tavish’s efforts were, however, unsuccessful, and in his excitement the forester began to abuse the salmon, calling upon it to move.
At last, though, as Max stood upon his tiny rock island with his rod bent, gazing wistfully down at the pool, Tavish sent in a great piece of slaty shale, which fell with a great splash, and then began to zigzag down through the dark water with so good a movement, that it touched the fish on the flank and started it off once more.
“Haud up ta rod! haud up ta rod!” cried Tavish.
“Hooray, Max! you’ll have it now,” cried Kenneth; and all watched the fisherman now with the greatest interest, as the salmon darted here and there, sometimes with a good stress on the rod, often, in spite of Tavish’s adjurations, with a loose line, for when it rushed toward the holder of the butt, Max could not be quick enough with the winch.