“No, no; let’s get him ashore.”
“Without ta fush!” cried Tavish indignantly. “D’ye think ta laddie would like to lose ta fush aifter a rin like tat?”
He shook his head and thrust his bared arm down into the water, as Max sat shivering on the rock.
“Why, ta line’s doon here aboot ta laddie’s legs,” cried Tavish, rising up with the strong fine plait in his hand. “Noo, Scood, stan’ awa. She’s richt noo, Maister Kenneth; so rin ashore again, and go below to yon stane. She’ll try to bring ta fush in for ye to gaff her there. Or would ta Southron chentleman like to gaff her fush her nainsel?”
“No, no,” said Max, with a shiver. “I want to get ashore.”
“I wouldn’t lose a fush like that for twa pun’!” cried Tavish again; and, as Kenneth stepped down into the water, gaff in hand, waded ashore, and ran downward among the rocks, dripping like an otter, Tavish slowly waded to bank, drawing the line slowly and carefully, and passing it through his hands.
“See him yet, Tav?” cried Kenneth from where he stood out in the stream. “Sure he’s on?”
“Ay, she can feel her. It’s a gran’ fush, Maister Kenneth, but ta whole hundred yairds o’ line was rin off ta reel. She wouldna lose ta fush for twa pun’.”
As he spoke he manipulated the line very cleverly, drawing it in foot by foot, and then letting it go again as the fish made a rush, but only for the line to be steadily drawn upon again, so as if possible to manoeuvre the captive close to the rock where Kenneth stood, gaff hook in hand, ready to strike.
“Oh, it’s a gran’ fush!” cried Scood excitedly, as he ceased from freeing Max from the line, and looked on.