For the fish was not yet wearied out, and made a brave struggle for freedom, but, in spite of its efforts and the chances in its favour, the forester only having the line, and no springy rod with its playing power, the end seemed to be drawing nigh. Again and again it was drawn towards Kenneth, and again and again it dashed away, the man letting the line run; but every time he had more line in hand, and the salmon’s tether grew more short.
“Hey, but she’s well hookit!” cried Tavish; “and she wouldna lose that fush for ten pun’.”
There was another rush, and a great bar of silver flashed out into the sunshine and fell with a splash upon a black stone half covered with foam.
“Leuk at that, maister,” cried Scood excitedly.
It was a momentary look, for the fish gave a flap with its tail and glided off into deep water, and made a fresh dash for liberty.
There was a steady draw of the line, though, and Tavish waded slowly more in-shore.
“That will do it, Tavvy,” shouted Kenneth, as the fish was drawn very close to the rock upon which he stood. “No, he’s off again.”
“Ay, she’s a gran’ fush,” cried the forester; “and she wouldna lose her noo for fifty pun’.”
Away went the salmon, taking out more line than ever this time, the water dripping like a shower of diamonds from the keeper’s fingers, as the fine silk plait ran through his hands.
“Can ye set any more free, Scood?” he cried.