And all through his rapid progress downward, Max was conscious of something tugging at, and jerking him away whenever he strove to catch hold of the nearest stone, till, what with the scalding, strangling sensation in his nostrils, the deadening feeling of helplessness and weakness coming over him rapidly, all seemed to be darkening into the semblance of a feverish dream, from which he was roused by a fresh jerk.
As soon as he could draw a breath which did not choke and make him cough painfully, he found that he was gazing up in the face of the great forester, who was holding him in some way, as he stood upon a stone, while the water kept on dragging and striving to bear him away.
“Oh, she’s cot the puir laddie richt. You come here and tak’ a grip o’ the gaff handle, Master Kenneth, an’ she’ll have her oot.”
The confusion was passing over, and Max could see more clearly, as Kenneth came wading out through the rushing water to the stone upon which Tavish stood.
“He’s all right, Tav,” cried Kenneth, whose serious face gradually grew mirthful. “Give us hold.”
The forester passed the gaff handle, and, as soon as Kenneth had it tightly, stepped down into the torrent up to his waist, and began to wade.
“Keep a tight haud,” he cried.
“I’ve got him,” said Kenneth. “Look here, Scood, here’s a fish.”
“Ye canna see the fush,” said Tavish excitedly. “She wouldna lose that saumon now for twa pun’.”
Max was thoroughly awake now to the fact that the gaff hook was through the collar of his jacket, and that the stream seemed to keep on tugging at him, to get him free.