“Na; it’s a’ of a tangly twiss,” cried Scood.
“Then we’ll hae her the noo. Leuk oot, Maister Ken. She’s coming richt.”
Tavish steadily drew in the line, and this time the salmon came well within Kenneth’s reach.
Max, in spite of his chilly sensations, sat watching intently, the excitement gaining upon him, and, in the midst of a breathless pause, Kenneth was seen to bend a little lower with outstretched hands, to straighten himself suddenly, and then step down into the shallow water and run splashing ashore, dragging after him a glistening salmon right up on to the rugged, grassy shore, where the silvery prize made a few spasmodic leaps, and then lay shining in the sun.
“Hooray!” shouted Kenneth, waving the gaff.
“Hey, hey, hey!” roared Scood, dancing about in the water and splashing Max.
“Hey hi!” roared Tavish, wading toward the rock where Max was seated. “She’s a gran’ fush, and she wouldna ha’ lost her for twa hundert pun’. There, laddie,” he continued, as he reached Max, “ye heukit her wunnerful; and ye’ve caught the gran’est fush this year. She’s twa-an’-twenty pun’. Come along.”
“How shall I get ashore?” said Max, with a shiver.
“Stan’ up, laddie, and get on my pack. Nivver mind a drap o’ watter. Maister Ken there’s got the whusky, and we’ll christen ta fush and troon a’ ta colds in ta old kintra.”
Max hesitated for a moment, and then, with some assistance, stood up, and let himself be drawn on to the Highlander’s back.