Perilous as was his position, seeming as it did to him that his life depended on the secure hold of the hook in the cloth of his jacket, he could not help feeling some annoyance that Kenneth and the forester should talk laughingly about him, as if he were a fish.
But he had no time to think of self, for Tavish had waded below him, and passed his arm about his waist.
“Got the line, Tav?” cried Kenneth.
“Ay, she’s cot ta line, and ta fush is on, but what a sorry tangle she’s in, wrapped roond and roond the laddie, and ta most peautiful rod we’ve cot proke in twa. Here, Scood, come and tak’ haud o’ ta rod, while we ket him on ta stane.”
Scood came wading toward them, holding on by the rocks, for the pressure of the water was sufficient to have taken him off his legs; and now, for the first time, Max awoke to the fact that he was holding tightly to the rod, which had snapped in two just above the bottom joint, and that the stout salmon line was about his body, while the top portion of the rod was some distance away along the line, kept in place by the rings.
“Hae a care, laddie—hae a care!” cried Tavish. “Cot ta rod, Scood?”
“Yes; but ta line’s all about him.”
“Never mind tat. Noo I’ll help ye. Let’s ket her on to ta rock.”
Max made some effort to help himself, but he was tied up, and he had to submit while the forester lifted and Kenneth pulled him out.
“Noo she’s richt,” cried Tavish.